


Avengers Age Play Ficlets

by ironmittens



Series: little!steve & caregiver!tony [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (more tags will be added as ficlets are added), Age Regression/De-Aging, Babysitting, Caregiver!Tony, Diapers, Dresses, Fluff, Gen, Infantilism, Little Steve Rogers, Non-Sexual Age Play, SO MUCH FLUFF, Stuffies, Tea Parties, bottles, cannot stress that enough, caregiver tony stark, little!steve, pull-ups, sippy cups, stories, supportive team
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironmittens/pseuds/ironmittens
Summary: A place for Avengers Age Play ficlets that aren't quite long enough to be fully-fledged oneshots, mostly Steve & Tony, but will feature other Avengers.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Avengers Team, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Avengers Team
Series: little!steve & caregiver!tony [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183649
Comments: 94
Kudos: 159
Collections: Non-Sexual Age Play Fics (MCU)





	1. little!steve + caregiver!tony (+ avengers)

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this will basically just be a place for the ficlets i write in my spare time, between the bigger stories/oneshots, usually when i want to cheer myself up. will probably feature a lot of little!steve, and will be about 500 words to 4k words! i'm mostly open to requests on this one, but keep in mind that updates will be sporadic because i write these mostly when the urge strikes, nothing too harrowing or plotty, mostly just mindless fluff ^_^ i hope you enjoy!! <333
> 
> (this first one has blink-and-you'll-miss-it sambucky bc i couldn't help myself)

It’s a slow Friday afternoon, Tony has wrapped up his most recent SI project and is currently tinkering with the right repulsor gauntlet of his stealth suit, trying to figure out why there’s a delay with one of the retroreflective panels. Steve is sat on the threadbare couch by Tony’s workstation, his sketchpad in his lap, more than content to let silence blanket them. Tony knows it’s being in the same vicinity that brings him comfort more than anything, and he’s more than happy to let Steve sit in the workshop when the urge strikes. 

The sun is nearing the Manhattan skyline, tinging the clouds there a deep red, and he knows the Avengers that are currently at the Tower will be wandering to the common room from their various crevices, as is the norm on Fridays and weekends. Today, that would be everyone sans Thor, who was off-planet, which isn’t _rare_ per se, but it isn’t exactly common either, seeing as they’re all relatively busy people. 

Tony wonders absently whether he should call it a day; it’s been a long week, both SI-wise and Avengers-wise, and he can feel his focus dwindling, can feel his thoughts becoming just a little bit harder to navigate with exhaustion.

He sends a glance toward Steve, double-taking when he notices that his legs are swinging back and forth. It’s a small detail, a lot of people would just gloss over it, but Tony knows a sign when he sees one. Steve’s gaze is fixated on DUM-E, his sketchbook has slid off his lap and onto the couch next to him. His arms are curled around his torso and he has a bright smile painted across his face. DUM-E wheels up to him, making a flurry of excited beeps — the very specific brand of beeping he only uses when Steve is in littlespace, which makes Tony wonder whether that bot has a sixth sense for it or something — and Steve lets out a delighted giggle, swinging his legs some more. 

Okay then. Definitely feeling little. 

Steve must feel Tony’s gaze on him, because he turns toward him, and his expression is open, care-free and relaxed in a way it often isn’t when Steve is big. His eyes flick down to where Tony is still holding his stealth suit gauntlet in his hand, and he shuffles forward a little.

“You work a lot,” he says. His voice is softer than usual, a bit higher-pitched. 

Tony huffs a laugh, setting his gauntlet down on the workstation. “Do I now?” 

“Mhm. Tasha says so.” 

He arches an eyebrow as he stands. “Yeah? Well, I think Miss Widow doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on. That woman’s schedule scares _me_.”

“DUM-E says so, too,” says Steve, smiling broadly when DUM-E ever so carefully reaches out with his claw to pat his head. 

Tony gasps in mock betrayal. “DUM-E. Are you talking about me behind my back? Is that what’s going on here?”

Steve kicks his legs again before bringing them up on the couch with a giggle. He seems to be a good mood, which has Tony thinking his drop into headspace was gradual this time around, from feeling safe and relaxed rather than from distress. He’s immensely relieved — with the hectic week the Avengers have had, it could’ve been a very different story. 

He approaches the couch, patting the bot. “DUM-E you are grade-A _gossip_. Talking about me with other people. Have you no shame?” 

“He was very nice,” Steve coos, patting him on the arm in almost perfect imitation of Tony’s pat. “He said your—your armor is cool.” He smiles cheekily, “but he also says—um, said, that one time, one time you crashed into the wall, while you were doing tests for the armor. That one,” he says, pointing, and Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. 

He looks accusingly at a nearby camera. “JARVIS, are you in cahoots with DUM-E? Have you been showing him compromising footage? Because that is, like, _so_ unacceptable, I don’t think I’ll ever recover.” 

“I will neither confirm nor deny, Sir.” 

“Yeah, you and I are talking about that later,” he says, pointing a finger at the camera, “but for now, I think my baby could do with some more comfortable clothes. What do you say?” 

He directs a playful poke or two at Steve’s stomach, smiling when he giggles and wraps his arms more protectively around his waist. 

“‘M not a baby.” 

“No? How old is my kid feeling today, then?” he asks. 

Steve thinks for a moment, a bashful smile forming on his lips as he holds up five fingers. 

Tony gasps. “So you’re my big boy today? Is that it?”

Steve nods eagerly. This is usually how it goes when his descent into headspace is more gradual — he feels older to begin with, but spending time with Tony tends to make him slip further, to a younger age. Steve told him somewhat bashfully once that it’s a combination of both feeling safe enough around Tony to slip, as well as just naturally feeling little when he’s looked after.

But, for now he does seem to be feeling older than usual, so Tony will absolutely work with that. 

“Okay. Alright. And can my big boy tell me whether he needs a pull-up?” 

Steve has trouble sometimes with bladder control, but only when he’s feeling _really_ young — about one or so. Still, it fluctuates, just like every aspect of Steve’s age regression, and this relationship they’ve struck up between them, so it’s better to be on the safe side. 

“I don’t need it, Daddy,” he says, looking up at Tony through his lashes.

“Okay. Can you promise to be good and let me know if you need to go?” 

Steve nods again, eyes bright. He’s _very_ earnest about being good, about being helpful, and it’s almost unbearably cute.

“And can you tell me what the word is for when you need to go when we’re around other people?”

“Orange,” says Steve.

It’s something that they’d agreed upon, when Steve had become comfortable enough to be around the other Avengers while in littlespace — they’d known about his age regression well before that, as well as Tony’s caregiving role whenever Steve is regressed, but Steve is often a shy thing, bubbly when he’s comfortable but generally introverted and reserved when it comes down to it, preferring quiet activities and more pedestrian pretend play, involving families or tea parties or doctors. That’s how he personally finds escape from the chaos that is his life outside of littlespace, from the gods and the aliens and the monsters. His senses are always attuned to the finest details, overwrought with input due to his supersoldier senses — quiet time allows for his brain to settle down a bit, for him to get comfortable enough to regress. 

“Good boy. How about we get some food into you now, huh? Maybe after we get you into some comfortable clothes? Those jeans look a little itchy.” 

Steve wrinkles his nose. “Itchy,” he agrees. It’s always a complaint he has with jeans, no matter how expensive and finely-crafted they are. Tony would know. 

“Okay then, champ. Up we get.” 

“Can we visit DUM-E again later? Or tomorrow?” Steve asks, as he stands up from the couch, “I think maybe he gets lonely down here.” 

DUM-E pipes up with some beeping, and Steve smiles warmly as he pets his claw. At this point, Tony doesn’t know who’s wrapped around whose finger. 

“Sure, we can visit the traitor anytime you like,” he confirms, pulling a little laugh from Steve.

“He’s not a traitor, Daddy, he’s _cute_ ,” he says, cooing. Tony doesn’t quite know when his tendency towards babying DUM-E while he’s feeling older started, but he feels warm fondness and amusement tangle together in his chest each time it happens without fail. 

“Of course he isn’t,” Tony agrees with a solemn nod. Steve seems satisfied with that, bouncing ahead a bit, and he leans down toward DUM-E to whisper ‘traitor’ before straightening again.

DUM-E gives a questioning beep. Tony sighs and pets his claw placatingly. Maybe he has some babying tendencies of his own. 

“Don’t blow anything up,” he tells him, as he makes for the elevator, “JARVIS, I’m counting on you, buddy.” 

“I will do my utmost, Sir.” 

Once they’re in the elevator, Steve begins to bounce on the balls of his feet. “Do you think Buck and Sam are finished training?” 

“Kiddo, if they’re still training, I think I’d have to lift them out of that gym with a crane.” 

Steve smiles. “But it wouldn’t fit.” 

“Oh, I could make it fit, trust me. It’ll be the smallest, most efficient crane ever.” 

“Because you’re smart? Buck says you’re smart.” 

Tony arches an eyebrow, trying hard to smother his sheer delight. “Does he now? Well, isn’t that nice of him.”

Yup. Never letting that one go, ever. Sorry not sorry, Buckaroo. 

“Yeah.” He pauses. “Other people say it too. You must be like, _this_ smart,” he says, holding his hands out. 

Tony reaches over to ruffle Steve’s hair, unable to help himself. “I don’t know, kid. That’s a _lot_ of smart.” 

“Yeah, but you have _all_ of it, Daddy,” he says, earnest, and Tony feels something warm and fond settle in his chest. 

He chuckles. “If you say so, sweetheart.” 

The elevator doors open to Tony’s floor — when he’d started caring for Steve in littlespace, they’d kept it to his penthouse, because Steve generally had more visitors to his floor, both expected and unexpected, and Tony was more than happy to tell the Avengers that the equipment was for him if they ever stumbled upon it, at least until Steve was comfortable. Plus, he’s semi-decent at lying, well-versed in covering things up with pointless babble and bluster. Steve, bless his heart, isn’t the best liar, both in headspace and out of headspace. 

The fading sun peeks out from behind the highrise buildings, already lit up in some places as darkness begins to fall. Cars rush along the interwoven Manhattan streets, creating twisting threads of light. Steve takes his hand, gently tugging him forth. He blinks himself out of his daze.

“So what clothes are we thinking today, kid?” he asks, giving his hand a brief squeeze as they make their way toward Steve’s little room.

“Ummm.” He thinks about it for a moment, a flush blooming on his cheeks. “Mulan jammies?”

Tony smiles encouragingly. “Of course. Nat and Clint are suckers for Mulan, I’m sure they’ll love it.” 

Steve’s favorite Disney princesses are Mulan and Merida, but he still has hang-ups about wearing his princess pajama sets around the other Avengers. Tony tries not to draw unnecessary attention to the choice, just pats Steve’s shoulder once they reach the room and approaches the closet, flitting about for a moment or two in search. 

“Hmm, let’s see. Mulan. Mulan. Oh, here.” 

He holds them up, and Steve’s unsure smile brightens a little. He bounces up on his toes.

“Do you need help, or are you okay?” 

“Um. Help? Please?” he asks, haltingly. 

Tony nods. “Of course, kiddo.” 

Steve often has trouble getting himself dressed in headspace, and he still likes help, even when he’s feeling older. Tony is happy to oblige, especially when it results in the beatific smile that’s currently painted across Steve’s face. Plus he has a coddling streak about a mile wide when it comes to Steve. Sue him. 

Once they get Steve out of his jeans and shirt, Tony helps Steve keep his balance as he steps into the pajama pants. He can’t resist giving his side a quick tickle when he holds his arms up above his head, which results in a string of giggles as Steve curls in on himself. He pokes Tony a few times in retaliation, huffing when Tony doesn’t so much as flinch. 

“Daddy isn’t ticklish,” he grumbles, as Tony laughs and helps him into his shirt. 

“Yeah, I’m immune, sorry kiddo. You know who _isn’t_ immune, though?” 

“Buck,” Steve answers, with a big, mischievous smile. 

“Exactly,” Tony agrees, “not that I’m encouraging anything, of course. But Winter Wonder is very much _not_ immune to tickling.” 

“He might get me though, Daddy,” he says, still smiling. 

“Not with me protecting you he won’t.” 

Steve giggles, wrapping his arms around himself. Tony walks over to the bed, picking up Steve’s favorite rabbit stuffed toy. He had it commissioned to look exactly like Steve’s actual childhood toy — pale blue overalls, floppy ears and all — and it’s still one of his favorite things. 

“Now. I think Mr. Rabbit would like to see the other Avengers, don’t you?” 

He makes the rabbit wave, and Steve smiles, nodding eagerly as he holds out his arms. Tony passes him the rabbit, pressing a kiss to Steve’s hair when the kid wraps it up in a tight hug. It’s tradition for Mr. Rabbit to get a hug every time Steve sees him, just in case he missed him while he was away. Steve hadn’t regressed in about a week and a half, so this time definitely qualified. 

“Ready to head to the communal floor for some food, kid?” 

Steve nods, taking Tony’s hand with one hand, and Mr. Rabbit’s hand—well, _paw,_ with the other. 

It’s a quick elevator ride, and once the doors open up to the communal floor with a mechanical whir, Steve walks forth, just the slightest bit more subdued — he’s still not one hundred percent confident around the other Avengers in headspace, and Tony knows it largely stems from his big self’s worries that they still privately find his age regression strange. Tony has tried to rationalize it with him, but he knows things like that need time as well. He’s still holding tightly onto Tony’s hand, shuffling his feet a little against the carpet. 

Nat looks up from where she’d been in a battle with Clint for the remote and extricates herself gracefully, a smile on her lips. 

“Hey there, зайка. That’s a cute shirt.” 

Steve smiles, hugging Mr. Rabbit with one arm. “Daddy bought it for me.” 

“Aw, wish Tony would buy _me_ Mulan pajamas,” Clint says, which was definitely the right thing to say, because Steve visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping from they’d been bunched up with tension. 

“Daddy could,” says Steve, looking at Tony with big eyes. Clearly, he thinks Clint is genuinely upset about not owning a set of Mulan pajamas. 

Tony laughs. He is completely and unabashedly wrapped around this kid’s finger. “Well, he’s the boss. JARVIS, did you catch that?”

“Indeed, Sir. I will place an order in Agent Barton’s size.” 

“Yes!” Clint cheers, fist-pumping the air. 

“Now you and Clint can match, huh?” he says, giving Steve’s hand a squeeze. 

Steve smiles and nods, shying away behind his rabbit. He seems more at ease now, which is all Tony could ask for. 

The elevator doors open behind them, and Bucky enters with Sam, hair still just the slightest bit damp, no doubt from his post-training shower. 

“Now those,” says Sam, pointing, “are some cool pajamas.” 

“Yeah, bet you wish you could be as cool as that,” says Bucky, earning himself a playful glare and an elbow to the side. Tony arches an eyebrow. Their bantering has been bordering on flirtatious teasing for a while now. 

“You wouldn’t know cool if it hit you in the face, Cyborg-boy.” 

“Wanna bet?” 

“You can both be cool,” Steve offers, which has fondness surging inside Tony’s chest. 

Bucky smiles as he approaches, ruffling the kid’s hair. “Guess I could live with that. Sam?”

“Only if we get to play hide and seek before dinner,” he says, with a grin. 

Steve perks up, eyes bright. “Hide ‘n seek?” 

Bucky nods. “You bet, pal. Why don’t you and Sam go hide somewhere on this floor while your Daddy takes care of all the boring adult stuff in here?”

Steve turns to Tony, blue eyes wide. Tony chuckles, patting his arm. “You gonna be good for those two?” 

He nods quickly. 

“Alright. Think we’ll order in tonight, so how about pizza?” 

“Ham and Pineapple?” Steve asks, “please?” 

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Daddy’ll be right here if you need me.” 

Steve smiles and nods, before heading down the hall with Sam, hugging Mr. Rabbit to his chest. Tony turns to Bucky, barely smothering a smile.

“So, you think I’m smart, huh?” 

Bucky snorts. “I said no such thing.” 

“Really? Because that is _totally_ what I just heard from Steve. Word for word. So you may as well fess up now, Robocop.” 

“I said only a smart person could make what you make.” 

Tony arches an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the same type of deal?” 

“You’re engineering-smart, yeah, but I’ve also seen you walk in a wall, stare at it for a few moments, then walk into it again. Oh, and I’ve seen you set a coffee machine on fire without trying. And—“ 

“Hey, exhausted-me and _me_ -me aren’t the same people!” 

“Aren’t they?” Bucky asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m a whole different person when I’m tired. Even _I_ don’t trust that guy.” 

Natasha snickers from where she’s sat on the couch. “He has a point.” 

“Look, guys, not to interrupt or anything here, but. Pizza?” says Clint. 

“You, Barton, have a one-track mind,” says Tony.

“Hey, I’m just thinking about the little guy, here,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Bucky glances back at the hallway. “Speaking of which, I think it’s been long enough now. Time to seek.” 

He wanders off down the hall, and Tony busies himself with ordering, chatting with Nat and Clint all the while. By the time they’re settling down on the couch with pizza, Steve tucked up into Tony’s side, the sun has set and the sky outside is a stretch of a deep blue. He nuzzles into Tony’s shoulder, clinging loosely onto his arm.

“Tired, sweetheart?” Tony murmurs, carding fingers through his hair. 

“Tired, Daddy,” he confirms, with an exaggerated yawn.

“Well, how about we get you into bed, then, hm?” 

“Stay with me?” he asks softly.

“For as long as you want,” Tony confirms.

“Forever?” 

Tony laughs, dropping a kiss to his hair. “You know, I think I can swing that.” 

“That’s like, a _hundred_ years,” Steve mumbles.

“I think forever might be a bit longer than that, little buddy.” 

“ _Five hundred_ years?” 

Tony barely smothers a smile. “Exactly that,” he agrees, “now, we should get you to bed, before you fall asleep right here on the couch, huh?” 

Steve hides his smile into Tony’s shoulder. “Kay.” 

“Alright. Wanna say goodnight to everyone?” 

Steve turns, clinging tightly onto Mr. Rabbit. 

“Nigh’ nigh’, evy’one.” 

He gets a few sappy smiles and a ‘good night’ from the other Avengers in turn. Tony stands up from the couch and offers him a hand. Steve takes his hand, and they head toward the elevator. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> steve rogers...i wanna hug u <333


	2. little!steve + caregiver!tony (+ avengers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this idea has been stuck in my head for agessss so i'm very glad to have finally gotten it down in writing. basically, it's little!steve who wants to wear a dress for his tea party and tony being surprised for like 0.02 seconds before proceeding to be totally supportive (and protective) :)

Sometimes, Steve’s age regression is involuntary. A tangled web of factors influence how often he drops, whether it’s once a week or once a fortnight or once a month. If he’s stressed or overwhelmed, worked up about one thing or another, he’s more likely to slip into littlespace, but sometimes, the reason is less discernible, it’s in slow, relaxed moments, or even when he’s just excited about something. He tells Tony that he can often handle these instances alone, that he’s been handling them alone since he was a teenager, and Tony trusts him when he says that. Still, he’s always a little relieved when JARVIS informs him that Steve could use some support, because there’s no arguing that he’s vulnerable in littlespace, and involuntary drops can be a stressful experience. 

Other times, his regression is a bit more voluntary, usually brought about by their age play. It took some initial trial and error, but Tony has gradually come to recognize the signs that Steve needs to let go for a while, and Steve has gradually become better at letting himself need it, even at coming to Tony when he needs it. On these occasions, they’ll get Steve changed into his little clothes and Tony will grab his pacifier if Steve feels like it that day. He’ll set up a space for them, either in Steve’s little room or in Tony’s living room, where he can ensure they’ll be uninterrupted so that Steve can relax enough to slip into a younger headspace, surrounded by toys and stuffies and other soft things. 

Steve had enthusiastically brought up the idea of a tea party the last time he was little, and Tony had tentatively approached him while he was big later on, to glean when he had a free weekend. Steve had blushed profusely, but confirmed without looking up from his sketchbook that he’d have a free weekend in about two weeks, which Tony could absolutely work with. 

That, of course, brings them to their current situation — Steve tucked into his side on the couch with his fingers jammed in his mouth, kicking his legs a little as Tony scrolls through a clothing website for Littles, showing him through the various outfits he could wear for his tea party. Big Steve is usually a little mortified by the idea of Tony spending money on him, but little Steve doesn’t have much concept of money or spending, so he watches with rapt attention as Tony scrolls through the various options. 

Tony glances over, wincing a little at the drool that runs down Steve’s chin as he suckles happily on his fingers. 

“Sure you don’t want a pacifier, sweetheart? Not sure how I feel about you sucking on your fingers. I mean, I know you’ve got that supersoldier immune system going for you and all, but it’s the principle of the thing, really.” 

Steve blinks, a little uncomprehendingly, before giving a tentative nod and removing his fingers from his mouth. Tony pulls a handkerchief from his pocket almost on autopilot, wiping his face down.

“Wait, wait, don’t wipe your hands on your shirt, kiddo, let’s go wash them in the kitchen, how about that?” 

“Dirdy,” Steve says, looking down at his hand, damp from the saliva covering it, before flicking his gaze upward again, blue eyes wide.

Tony shakes his head a little, smiling as he sets his laptop aside and stands up from the couch. 

“Dirty,” he agrees, “let’s go get them cleaned up.”

Steve grabs onto Tony’s sleeve with the hand that hadn’t been on his mouth, but it still leaves a dark streak or two of saliva on the fabric, which has Tony sighing a little as he guides Steve toward the kitchen with a gentle palm rested on the small of his back. 

“Oh, and would you look at that. We have our Avengers trademarked ‘blue raspberry foam hand soap.’ Isn’t that something?” 

Steve giggles as he holds his hands out over the sink, twisting them beneath the water a bit when Tony turns on the tap. He turns it off again after a few seconds and reaches for the soap, dispensing some of it onto Steve’s awaiting palms.

“Bwue,” he says, fixated on the soap.

“That’s right! You remember how long we wash our hands for, sweetheart?” 

His eyebrows knit together, forming an adorable little crease on his forehead as he thinks. 

“Twe—twendy?” he asks, tentatively, and Tony smiles encouragingly. 

“ _Man_ , you’re good. Twenty seconds is ‘happy birthday’ twice, think you can be super good and hum that with me?”

He _would_ sing it, but, well. Rhodey and pretty much anyone else in his life can attest to the fact that his singing voice leaves much to be desired. 

Steve nods eagerly, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, which sends a few droplets of foamy soap flying. He looks mournfully down at the floor. 

“Uh oh.” 

Tony shakes his head and places his hands on Steve’s shoulders, gently turning him toward the sink. 

“You’re alright, kid, accidents happen. Let’s start on the count of three, okay?” 

Steve’s humming is just. _Too cute_ to be allowed. It’s pitched up a little, young and innocent-sounding, and it tugs at just about every one of his heartstrings. 

Once they get his hands rinsed off and dried, Tony washes his hands too — it doesn’t hurt, after all — and retrieves a pacifier from the cabinet, pale blue with clouds printed onto it. They head back to the living room couch, where golden afternoon sunlight pours in through the full-length windows, flooding the room with warmth. 

He settles down beside the arm of the couch, replacing his laptop and automatically holding an arm out for Steve to tuck himself under, which he does with a happy little hum through his pacifier. 

“Alright. Where were we? Oh! Right. These overalls, I gotta say, kiddo, they’re pretty cool. I’m not saying that you’d be cooler than Clint or anything but. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Steve smiles, burrowing in a little closer to get a good look. 

“Bwue,” he says, which Tony is starting to suspect is his favorite word, right next to ‘DUM-É’ and ‘why.’ He’s a curious kid, especially when it comes to things he hasn’t encountered in headspace before. 

“Blue,” he agrees, “a nice blue, too. Honestly a quality blue right there.” 

Steve clumsily raises a hand and touches a finger to the screen, retracting it a little to hover before Tony can gently remind him. His eyebrows furrow a little as he tries to discern what Steve is drawing his attention to, raising in surprise when it’s the ‘dresses’ category on the sidebar. It takes all of about two seconds for him to sort of start feeling like a dick for being surprised. 

“Those are the dresses,” he confirms, slowly, “that what you wanna look at?” 

Steve hesitates, looking up at him with wide eyes like he caught the uncertainty wound through Tony’s tone, and Tony kicks himself inwardly. 

“It’s totally fine if you wanna take a look. I’m sure they’ve got some cute ones.” 

He eyes Tony wearily for a moment, legs kicking a little uncertainly, before nodding and settling back into his side, squirming to get comfortable once more. 

Tony clicks to the dresses, and Steve’s gaze skims over the results. He lets out a little noise of delight as he stops at a deep blue cinderella-esque gown, bouncing eagerly in his seat. 

“Whoa there, alright,” he chuckles, as he clicks on the dress. It has a swishy skirt that flares outward, adorned with sparkles that almost look like stars, and sleeves with some surprisingly intricate detailing, pale blue butterflies sewn into the fabric. 

Does it seem a little extra for a tea-party? Sure, maybe. Is that going to stop Tony from buying the hell out of it and having it modified if Steve wants it? Absolutely not. 

“Pwetty,” Steve mumbles, raising a hand to stroke over the screen, before promptly retracting it again with a scrunched up expression of disappointment when he realizes he can’t touch it through the screen. 

“Pwetty?” he says again, this time for confirmation, looking up at Tony with big eyes.

Tony nods. “ _So_ pretty. You will, without a doubt, be the bestest cinderella I’ve ever seen, and trust me, I’ve seen a lot of cinderellas in my time. I know what I’m talking about here.” 

Steve giggles and nods, curling his arms around his waist and raising one shoulder to his cheek. 

“Da’ one? Cind—wella?” 

“You want that one? We can get that one. Why don’t you color for a bit while I take a look at the sizes? I’m sure Sam or Bucky would love a nice drawing.” 

His eyes light up immediately, and he scrambles off the couch in his haste to settle on the rug and pull the crayons on the coffee table closer to him. 

“Remember our rule about coloring, kiddo?” Tony prompts, and Steve pauses for several moments before gasping and placing a piece of paper down next to his coloring book. _That_ happened to be one of their first rules, enacted after Tony discovered Steve trying to test the crayon colors on the table. If he has paper to test the colors on, he’s far less likely to turn to Tony’s shiny mahogany coffee table. 

“Good boy,” he says, as he returns to his laptop, bringing up the size chart. He has Steve’s exact measurements from routinely fitting him for tactical suits and gear upgrades, so it shouldn’t be too much trouble to approach his tailor with this specific request. 

The Avengers have been pretty good about Steve’s age regression thus far, but Tony might have to talk with them prior to the tea party, too. He doesn’t think any of them would be assholes about Steve wearing a dress, but he’s _definitely_ not taking any chances, not while Steve is in headspace. 

~ 

The following day finds Steve staring at a picture of the gown like he’s seeing it for the first time. 

“It’s very. Uh. _Out there,_ Tony. You obviously don’t have to—“

“Hey, come one now, none of that, Cap. If little you wanted the dress then I don’t see why you shouldn’t have it. I mean. There are definitely more outrageous things you could do than wear a dress. If you need inspiration, take a look at my long and extended history of doing outrageous things. Pretty sure there’s a video on YouTube compiling every time the pearl-clutchers at Fox News have expressed their disapproval at my numerous distasteful life choices.” 

A smile tugs at Steve’s lips. “Sam showed me that one.” 

“Not surprised in the slightest.” 

“That thing with the dance troupe...?” 

“A story for another time, preferably while I’m decidedly _less_ sober,” says Tony, smiling mysteriously, “for now, though — I’m not gonna force you to do anything you don’t want to. But, in my professional opinion, if it’s something that’ll make you happy, then fuck everyone else.” 

Steve considers this for several moments before giving a tentative nod. “No cameras?”

“Sure. We’ll put it on the invitation. ‘You are cordially invited to Steve’s tea party — please leave all cameras and cellphones at the door, keeping in mind that your compliance will be seen to by Iron Man.” 

Steve smiles, visibly amused despite the faint flush of embarrassment that’s already spread itself across his face. “Threatening people right off the bat seems a little much.”

“Hey, that’s not concrete or anything. We can workshop it. Still got like a week and a half.” 

He still looks a little hesitant, hands rubbing nervously at his jeans, but he nods anyway, and Tony takes that as a win. It was a slow process, getting Steve comfortable with acknowledging his little headspace while he’s big, but Tony thinks he’s getting there. He may never be entirely confident about it, but that’s alright. 

He probably has enough shamelessness for the both of them, anyway. 

~ 

It takes a few days, largely because they all have pretty conflicting schedules a lot of the time, but Tony takes the first opportunity he gets to round up the Avengers on the communal floor, while Steve is caught up in a meeting with Fury. They seem pretty amused when Tony stands up in front of where they’re all sprawled out over the couches, paying attention to various degrees. 

“Alright, come on guys, focus up,” he says, clicking his fingers, which draws a few gazes from their phones.

“Uh oh. Mom’s gonna lecture us,” Clint stage-whispers, which earns him a few sniggers. 

“I—wait, I thought we agreed I was dad,” he says, raising a hand to his chest. 

“Are you kidding?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised, “You remind us to eat and hover over our med-bay beds with Starbucks whenever we get hurt. Steve gives us pats on the back and fatherly lectures about responsibility. You’re _definitely_ mom.” 

Tony opens his mouth to protest, before promptly snapping it shut again. 

When you put it like that...

“I resent that, just for the record,” he says, which gets him a snort, “but anyway. That’s not why I called this meeting.” 

“ _That’s_ what this is? ‘Cause all _I_ remember is blacking out after my first sip of tea and waking up here,” Bucky says, folding his arms over his chest, which prompts another round of sniggers.

“Yeah, alright. An idea for next time,” Tony snarks, rolling his eyes, “before we get anymore derailed, I’m just gonna come out and say it — we’re all aware of a certain tea party that’s happening this weekend, right?” 

He gets a few nods and affirmative noises from around the room. 

“Great. Glad we’re all on the same page there. Anyway, I don’t feel like I actually have to say this, but I’m going to anyway. You know — precautions and all that. Steve chose an _adorable_ dress for this tea party, and if a single person in this room comments on it in a remotely negative way, I _will_ make sure to have airhorns blast inside your room every morning at 5 am for the next month. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise,” he says, channeling as much ‘Pepper facing up to the board’ energy as he can into his stern glare. 

Clint raises his arms in mock surrender. “Hey. Dresses are great, man. I got nothing against dresses. I wore a dress for a mission once, it matched my hearing aids and everything. It was cool.” 

“It’s blue, right?” Natasha asks, “my faith in your ability to pick dresses is riding on this question, Stark. Proceed carefully.” 

“Okay, first off, _I_ didn’t choose the dress, Steve did. Second off, _yes_ , it is, in fact, blue.” Before he can help it, he blurts, “it’s a Cinderella gown.” 

A chorus of coos and delight breaks out among them, and Tony relaxes, shoulders lowering down from they’d been bunched up without him even realizing. He knew deep down that the Avengers would be good about this, but the confirmation definitely doesn’t hurt. 

“Airhorns,” he reminds them all, pointing an accusatory finger just for good measure, which garners a few snorts. 

“Don’t needa tell me twice. I’ve seen those repulsors,” says Bucky, “hell, if anyone in this room said one bad word to him about wearin’ a dress I’d join you.” 

A smirk tugs at Tony’s lips. “Hopefully I won’t have to take you up on that.” 

Chatter breaks out after that, and Tony nods to himself, satisfied. That’s another check on his preparation list. 

~ 

The midday sun beats warm and lazy through the open windows of Steve’s little room, allowing a gentle breeze to air the place out. A few things have been re-arranged to create space in the center of the room, where an ornate wooden table sits, surrounded by equally decorative chairs. A crisp red and white tablecloth is laid out over the surface, on top of which gleaming ceramic teacups and saucers sit, laid out for each person. There are trays and cake stands, teapots, sugar and creamer sets, as well plates adorned with roses, stained a vibrant red. 

Steve had settled into his headspace a few hours ago, but as the time specified on their invitation nears, he seems to grow more and more anxious, chewing at his bottom lip and curling in on himself, making himself as small as possible. 

It hadn’t been too difficult to get Steve into the dress — it was made to resemble something a kid would wear, after all, so it putting it on wasn’t an overly intricate process, it just required a zip. 

The dress is adorable. _He’s_ adorable.

But Tony has been telling him that for the past five minutes, so he thinks he might need a different approach. 

“Hey, sweetheart, you wanna hear something Clint told me the other day?” 

Steve nods, thumb creeping up to his mouth. Tony is quick to intercept it, slipping a pacifier into his mouth instead, which has Steve relaxing just a fraction as he gives it a tentative suck, before falling into a rhythm, blue eyes shiny with unshed tears. 

“He told me that he’s worn a dress before. Isn’t that cool?” 

He processes this for a moment, the ghost of a smile flickering over his features. “Cwint?” 

“That’s right. And you know what color it was? Purple. Just like your favorite crayon, huh?”

Steve’s smile grows just a little wider, before falling away entirely. “Vengers?” he asks, bottom lip trembling dangerously, and Tony shakes his head, drawing him in for a hug and dropping a kiss to the golden strands of his hair. 

“Kiddo, there’s still time if you want to change into something else — I can help you find something. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But I promise you right now, the team is gonna _love_ your dress.”

He sniffles into Tony’s shoulder, nuzzling in close. He doesn’t respond for a while, and Tony doesn’t prompt him, just sways him gently back and forth, peppering kisses along his hairline, until the tension drains from his shoulders, until his sharp, panicked breaths even out. 

“How are we feeling, kid? Want me to help you choose something else?” 

Steve hesitates for several moments before tentatively shaking his head, still sucking adamantly on his pacifier. 

Tony tries hard to conceal his surprise. “You sure, sweetheart?” 

He nods, a little more certain now. Tony smiles encouragingly, “okay. Anytime you wanna leave, just let me know. Can you do that for me?” 

Steve nods again, offering him a small, tentative smile. 

Tony returns it as he gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, turning toward the table. “Alright. Now! You know what we need? Some napkins. I mean, what kind of respectable tea party doesn’t have napkins?”

He watches the excited gleam steadily return to Steve’s eyes as he makes an affirmative noise, bouncing up onto the balls of his feet. 

The napkins are Avenger-themed, funnily enough, which clashes just slightly with the color scheme they have going, but it’s totally worth it to see Steve babbling happily, informing Tony which Avenger is which. He’s more than relieved when it proves to be enough to distract him until JARVIS announces the arrival of Clint and Nat. 

He checks in with Steve one more time before allowing them onto the floor, briefly fixing up his swishy skirt so that it sits right and brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face. He seems less anxious than he had before, but there’s still a quiet apprehension there as he latches onto Tony’s sleeve, pressing into his side. 

Natasha is the first to enter, and she must spot the tension that Steve is carrying immediately, must see the way he sucks anxiously at his pacifier, because she softens her expression, a kind smile curving her lips. Tony has seen the masks and personas that she dons easier than anything, but this particular expression looks genuine, has Natasha written all over it. 

“That dress,” she says, as she moves forward to inspect it, “is _beautiful._ ” 

A shy smile warms Steve’s features, breaks through his visible nervousness. It’s a slight upturn of lips that has relief washing over Tony in an instant. He clings tighter onto Tony’s sleeve, but it’s more out of bashfulness now than genuine fear. 

“Hands down, the best gown I have ever seen,” Clint agrees, casual as anything, “that blue? _so_ good.” 

Steve removes his pacifier from his mouth. “Cind-wella,” he offers tentatively, which earns him a pair of soft smiles.

“You know, it’s been _way_ too long since we watched Cinderella. I think we’re due for another re-watch.” 

In his excitement at that statement, Steve drops his hand from Tony’s sleeve. He looks steadier now, his smile a little brighter. 

“Cind-wella bwue,” he explains, as he approaches the table. He gives them both the same run-down of the Avengers napkins that he did Tony, a little more subdued this time, slightly less enthusiastic, but that isn’t uncommon for him in headspace around the other Avengers, and Tony is attuned to the smaller details and tells anyway. 

When Bucky steps into the room he gasps dramatically, which has Steve looking over in faint alarm. 

“Sam. Are you _seein’_ this?” 

“I think I am, man. That dress?” 

“The best damn cinderella dress I’ve seen,” Bucky continues, lips quirking at the corners when his dramatics pull a small giggle from Steve. 

“Bes’?” he asks. 

Bucky nods seriously. “’Course, pal. Have you tried twirling in it yet?”

Steve considers this for a moment or two before taking a few steps back from the table, twirling in place with a few small steps, which has the swishy skirt flaring outwards. He smiles, delighted, and Bucky steadies him with a hand on his arm when he wobbles a little.

“Whoa there. Alright?” 

He nods quickly as he slips his pacifier back into his mouth, looking down at the dress in wonder. Tony doesn’t even try to temper his fond smile. 

There isn’t any real tea, because Steve isn’t in the headspace to actually be using ceramic teacups, and the drink itself might be too hot for him, but he still makes sure to pour everyone their imaginary tea. The cookies and the cakes are very much real though, and Tony breaks Steve’s up into smaller chunks for him, smiling whenever he removes his pacifier to tentatively interject something. He’s always met with enthusiasm, and it seems to soothe his nerves enough that his headspace settles once more, and his quiet giggles come a little easier. 

The red-tinged late afternoon sun pours inside, relaxed and warm. Outside, the general bustle of Manhattan never stops, never slows down. Inside, where Steve looks more care-free than Tony has seen him all week, sipping at imaginary tea and working his way through small chocolate-chip cookies, he feels completely and utterly content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: the team jokes about steve and tony being mom and dad of the avengers, but they aren't together romantically in these particular ficlets thus far, if there's a romantic relationship between them while they're both big then i'll make sure to add that in the notes before that particular ficlet :D but generally, assume their relationship is platonic <3


	3. little!steve + caregiver!tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! today, i give you: baby steve who just really wants his dada
> 
> (his headspace age here is probably about 12 months, maybe a smidgen younger) <3

“Pep, all I need is like. Ten minutes, tops. Just let me pitch it to them, I’ve already smoothed them over—“

“That’s debatable,” Pepper says, as she re-ties her hair into a neat ponytail, “and I don’t see why it can’t wait until next time, Tony. It’s a miracle they’ve been even a little agreeable this time, we shouldn’t take any unnecessary chances.” 

Tony clasps his hands together. “Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking. If they’re not open to it, I’ll never ask anything like this again. It’ll be the best damn pitch since sliced bread—“

“That doesn’t even make sense—“

“Look, they’re right over there, smiling and everything! Ten minutes. That’s all.”

Pepper regards him for several long moments, before heaving a sigh. “Fine. _Ten minutes._ This better be good.” 

A triumphant grin breaks out on Tony’s face. “Have I mentioned how much I love you, lately?” 

“Not nearly enough,” she quips, as he stacks a few files and stands up from her chair, heels clacking against the polished floor. “Be ready in five minutes.” 

The ‘or else’ is implied in her tone alone. 

Tony nods. “Five minutes. Roger that.” 

She walks over to the other business executives with her usual air of crisp efficiency, greeting them with a cordial smile. Tony nods to himself, startling just a little when his phone begins to vibrate in his pocket. He glances about the room before pulling it out, initially just to hit decline, until he sees Bucky’s name flashing across his screen. 

Bucky isn’t the biggest fan of calling — usually, he prefers text. That is certifiably the _only_ reason Tony hits accept with a heavy sigh.

“Listen, not to be abrupt or anything, but if this isn’t the most important thing in the world — I’m talking intergalactic threats, world-ending scenarios, I’m seriously hanging up on you, Robocop.” 

“Steve dropped,” he says, without preamble. 

Tony blinks, shocked, before frowning. “He told me he was alright after that mission.” 

“We pulled a couple of all-nighters while we were out there. Think he was feeling tired, so he fell asleep about two hours ago and when he woke up he started crying. Think it might’ve been a nightmare.” Bucky hesitates for a moment. “He’s...young, Tony.” 

“Okay. Alright. How young are we talking here?”

“Uh. Like, one. Younger, maybe. Not sure.”

“Shit. So does that mean—“

“That I changed my pal into a diaper? Yeah. Pretty much. Put the soiled sheets in your laundry pile, by the way.” 

Tony lets out a sigh — the running theme for today, with all of these business meetings, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I know you’re not—“ 

“I’ve seen and done worse, Tony,” he says dryly, “just—when can you get up here? I’m not sure if I can deal with another meltdown.” 

“He had a meltdown?” 

Steve isn’t all that difficult in headspace, but he _has_ been known to have a few _very_ loud meltdowns, mostly when he’s struggling with big emotions while he’s feeling little. Tony has come to find that removing as much stimuli as possible — transferring him to a sound-proof room, dimming the lights, surrounding him with soft things, without too much variety in textures — seems to calm him down. He knows how his navigate his supersoldier senses while he’s big, but while he’s little, hearing and seeing and feeling beyond what any regular person can get overwhelming for him very quickly.

“You’re not here, so yeah,” Bucky confirms, as though it’s obvious, “don’t think he’s ever felt this young without you there. I’m barely keeping him calm as it is.”

“Is he standing alright?” 

“He can stand, but not for very long. Can’t walk that far either.” 

Tony considers this for a beat or two. “Alright. Can you pick him up?” 

“Haven’t tried. He’s not exactly light, Tony.”

“Come on, what’s the point of that fancy metal-arm if you can’t lift another supersoldier?” 

He hears a very distinct sigh on the other end. “For the record, I only got a knock-off Hydra version of Steve’s serum, but alright. I’ll try carrying him. Where to?” 

“My bed,” he says, wincing a little at the raised eyebrows that Pepper is directing at him from across the room, “he sleeps there sometimes. Might find comfort in it. Just—keep him occupied for a bit, alright? Stuffies, toys, whatever. I’ll be up in like, ten minutes tops.” 

Bucky responds with an affirmative, and Tony ends the call, probably somewhat abruptly, pocketing his phone and standing up from his chair. He responds to Pepper’s skeptical look with a bright smile. 

What follows is virtually a speed-run business pitch that he somehow manages to pull off despite his thoughts being all over the place, even with Pepper’s silent yet frequent _‘oh no what did I agree to’_ looks. He’s out of the office floor and on the elevator in record time, tapping out a quick text to her in explanation. 

Thank _god_ his meetings had been in Stark Tower today. 

He’s pondering whether he’d used the last of the milk that morning when the elevator doors open up to the communal floor, where Bucky — the unfortunate soul left at the Tower on this fine Thursday evening, while the others are off doing god-knows-what — is sitting beside a distraught-looking Steve on the couch. His face is blotchy and red, stained with very distinct tear-tracks, and his expression is contorted in a way that makes him look utterly miserable. Tony feels himself melt instantly, all thoughts of his insanely busy day fleeing his mind as he shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair, approaching the pair. 

Bucky is talking quietly, voice pitched down in an effort to be soothing, but Steve doesn’t really appear to be comprehending any of it, at least not in a way that makes sense to him, sucking adamantly on his thumb and staring off into the middle-distance. 

It takes a moment or two once his eyes land on Tony for him to register that it’s him, but once he does, an immediate smile paints itself across his face. 

“Da-da!” he sniffles, voice wavering a little, which. Should be illegal, just as a side note. Tony’s gonna have a heart attack one day and it’s definitely going to be because Steve is so damn heartbreakingly _cute_. 

“Hey sweetheart,” he coos, honestly without meaning to. 

Steve whines in the back of his throat and holds his arms out toward Tony. “Da-da.” 

“Wouldn’t let me carry him anywhere till you got here,” Bucky explains. 

Tony nods, stepping up to the couch. “Sorry, kiddo, I can’t carry you, so you’re gonna have to work with me here.” 

Steve just makes another grabby motion with his hands, and Tony sighs a little as he takes them gently in his own, taking a seat beside the kid. 

“Buckaroo, could you be a dear and put one of those throw pillows over there on my lap?” he asks, as Steve latches onto his hands with a surprising amount of strength, burrowing into Tony’s shoulder. He winces a little at the thought that his silk shirt is probably going to end up covered in a combination of tears and snot, but really, that’s nowhere _near_ the worst thing he’s been covered in, so he’ll live. 

Bucky obliges immediately, choosing the one closest to him and placing it on Tony’s lap. He opens his mouth to let Steve know he can lay down if he wants, but the kid has other ideas apparently, clambering onto his lap in an instant and latching around the back of his neck instead, like a little koala. 

“Uh—“

Steve tips his head back to look at him, bottom lip wobbling, tears gathering in his eyes. 

Okay. Nope. Abort.

“This is fine,” he continues quickly, shifting a little to get comfortable and winding his arms around Steve, steadying him. He subtly checks to make sure that he hasn’t used his diaper before settling down fully, bouncing his knee a little and patting the kid’s back. 

“Uh. Do you need me to get anything, or...?” Bucky pipes up, looking a little unsure.

“Have you ever made up a bottle before?” Tony asks. 

“No, not really. Funnily enough, Hydra didn’t exactly have me looking after kids all that often.” 

Tony snorts. “Wouldn’t that be something. Okay, well, looks like today’s your lucky day, Cyborg boy. I usually do a half-half with milk and a meal replacement shake, because his metabolism is like, insane, and he needs the calories. Zap it in the microwave for about thirty seconds and drop some on the inside of your wrist to make sure it’s not too hot. Oh, bottles are in the very left cupboard, by the way, top shelf.” 

Bucky blinks for a moment or two, clearly processing, before giving a nod. “Alright. Think I can swing that.” 

Tony nods sagely. “I have complete faith in you.”

“That is _way_ too much faith,” Bucky mumbles, but he’s smiling a little as he makes for the kitchen.

Steve seems content with clinging to him for the time being, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt in a death grip. His sniffling into Tony’s shoulder has died down a bit, and the tension gradually drains from his shoulders as Tony continues to bounce him, humming nonsense and reaching out to brush his hair back occasionally. Once he’s fully settled, Steve begins to turn his attention toward his environment, his cheek rested on Tony’s chest as his gaze finds the remote that’s just out of reach, sitting innocently on the arm of the couch. He reaches out for it a few times, making little despairing noises when his fingertips brush the side of the couch, but don’t reach the remote. Tony reaches over for him, taking the remote and offering it to him. Steve lets out a little squeal of delight, babbling to himself as his fingers curl around it tightly, smooshing all the buttons. He shakes it a bit, blue eyes wide as he observes it, before lifting it to his mouth. 

“Ah-ah, that’s not for mouthing, kiddo, it’s dirty,” Tony says hurriedly, gently bringing his hand back down. 

Steve blinks at him for a moment but otherwise seems unfazed, squeezing the remote buttons repeatedly. He slowly detaches his other hand from Tony’s shirt, passing the remote to that one, and staring down like he’s just made the most fascinating discovery.

He makes a high-pitched sound of delight, looking up at Tony with big eyes and saying, with complete confidence, “womo.” 

Tony does his damnedest to smother what’s probably a horribly sappy smile, but he fails pretty spectacularly. “Remote,” he confirms, nodding seriously. 

Steve smiles and squirms happily, babbling on about “womo’s” as he passes said remote from one hand to the other like it’s going out of style. Eventually, he gets bored of that, dropping the remote onto the couch and turning his full attention on Tony. He stares for a little while, before reaching up and setting a hand on Tony’s face.

“That’s my forehead,” Tony nods, smiling when Steve blinks uncomprehendingly and moves his hand toward Tony’s cheek. He pats it a few times before launching into some more babble, strings of vowels and the occasional ‘Da-da’ thrown in there, while Tony nods along like everything makes perfectly complete sense.

“You are one chatty baby today,” he says, as he gives his stomach a quick tickle, smiling when Steve squeals and scrunches his shoulders up. “Yeah you are,” he coos, chucking him playfully under the chin, “how am I supposed to put you down for a nap if you’re this chatty, huh?” 

“Da-da,” he coos right back, patting his forehead, which has Tony laughing a little as Bucky re-enters, looking thoroughly humbled. 

“I succeeded,” he says, “just don’t ask me how many times I tried.” 

Tony grins. “See? Knew you could it. You’re a natural and everything.” 

Bucky grumbles a little as he walks over to the couch, handing him the bottle. “Bottles should _not_ be that hard.” 

“To be fair,” Tony says, “the only thing you’ve used a microwave for so far is popcorn. That’s unfamiliar territory right there.” 

“Sure, we’ll stick with that,” Bucky says, a smile tugging at his lips as his eyes land on Steve, who’s very happily ignoring the conversation in favor of petting clumsily all over Tony’s face, narrowly missing his eye at one stage.

“Yup, that's my eyeball, kiddo," says Tony, "let's not gouge that one out. Sorta need it." He pauses, directing his gaze back at Bucky. "Thanks, by the way. I mean — not just for that, but for calling me and all.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows raise just a little at that, which is fair — Tony has a _very_ hard time trying to be sincere without either shutting down or dying on the inside, because. Well. _Emotions_. But Bucky should know that he appreciates it, even with his normal aversion to expressing that sort of thing verbally. 

“It’s no problem. Just glad he’s doing better now. Need me to stick around at all?” 

“Think we’ll be alright,” says Tony, smiling when Steve strings together another odd-sounding word that must make perfect sense to him, because it results in him giggling like crazy.

“Well, I’ll be in the gym if you need me. Pretty sure ‘Tasha’s gonna be here soon, too.” 

“Alright. Probably gonna make something easy for dinner, seeing as I’ve got a shadow for the night,” he says, smiling warmly in Steve’s direction as he picks the remote up again, “so, you can make whatever. Just don’t burn the kitchen down.” 

“What, like you do with your workshop?”

“That’s— _so_ not a fair comparison, just for the record.” 

Steve looks up at Tony’s faux tone of indignance, gaze straying toward Bucky. Bucky offers him a small smile and a wave. 

“Wanna say bye-bye to Bucky?” Tony asks him, dropping a quick kiss to his shoulder. 

Steve smiles and waves. “Bye-bye bu-cy.” 

“I’ll see you later, buddy,” he returns, moving forward to ruffle the kid’s hair. 

“Bu-cy,” he says again, squirming a little and reaching up as far as he can to touch the man’s cheek. 

Tony can’t help but laugh. “Think he’s got a new greeting. And a good-bye.” 

Bucky snorts, looking somewhere between fond and amused. “I appreciate it, pal.” 

Once he’s in the elevator, headed down to his floor, Tony drops a little bit of the milk onto the inside of his wrist, to make it’s still warm enough, before bouncing Steve a bit on his lap. “Think we’re gonna need to get you re-situated, sweetheart.” 

Steve feels Tony stirring and immediately clings on tight with an anxious whine. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tony soothes, petting down his side, “just gotta get you comfortable so you can have your bottle, huh? It’s vanilla, your favorite and everything.” 

Steve considers this for several moments, eyebrows furrowed. While he’s little, he does register what Tony is saying, but he has a harder time trying to decode it, especially when he’s feeling _this_ small. Usually, he can understand just about anything Tony says while in headspace, just has a harder time verbalizing his own thoughts. Other times — usually due to severe distress, which Tony knows he’s going to have to talk to him about once he’s feeling big again — he gets fuzzy enough that a lot of words escape him. It’s very easy to be snapped out of headspace when he’s feeling this young, too, which is why Tony tries to limit surrounding stimuli as much as possible. Thank _god_ for the Tower’s tightly-sealed windows. 

“Ba-ba,” Steve says, and there’s a question wound through his tone. 

“Ba-ba,” Tony confirms, holding up the bottle.

Steve looks at it like he’s just noticed it for the first time. He settles pretty quickly after that, letting Tony help him off his lap so that he can lay across it instead, head propped up on a few pillows. Tony reaches over for the throw blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch, spreading it out over the kid’s lap. 

“JARVIS, be a dear and dim the lights about 50%?” 

The sun has almost fully set, so natural light is already dwindling, but if he’s going to get Steve into bed anytime soon, it doesn’t hurt to darken things just a little. 

“Of course, Sir.” 

He shifts a bit to get comfortable, settling a hand at the back of Steve’s head before bringing the teat of the bottle to his mouth. He opens up immediately, latching on and giving one tentative suck before falling into a rhythm, eyes fluttering shut. He balls one hand up into a loose fist and hovers it by the side of the bottle. Tony feels himself gradually relax, the worries of his hectic day evaporating as he runs gentle fingers through Steve’s hair. 

Steve’s suckling begins to slow about halfway through the bottle, and when he turns his head away, Tony draws back and sets it down, guiding him to sit up with a hand on his back. Steve nuzzles into his chest, latching onto his shirt, as Tony pats his back rhythmically, stopping when he burps. 

“Still hungry, sweetheart?” he murmurs, dabbing absently at the small amount of milk that dribbles down his chin with the sleeve of his shirt. 

Steve clings on tighter, clearly reluctant to give up his position against Tony’s chest, which has Tony chuckling a little as he reaches for the bottle and gently tilts Steve’s head so he doesn’t have to move. His grip on Tony’s shirt loosens as he goes through the rest of the milk, eyes lidded and hazy once he finally removes and bottle and sets it aside. 

“Someone’s looking a little tired.” 

He whines at that, wrapping his arms around the back of Tony’s back. “Da-da.” 

“Yeah, been a long day, huh? But it’s fine, let’s get you changed and into bed, how about that?” 

Steve’s beginning to look a little teary, no doubt due to his exhaustion, and Tony knows he’s on a time crunch here to get him to his crib. It’s just — he can’t exactly carry the kid, as much as he’d like to, which means he’ll have to get the stroller out from the nearby closet, the one he designed specifically to account for Steve’s strength. 

“Okay. Alright. Daddy’s gonna have to get up, but he’ll be back before you know it, I swear.” 

He gently pries Steve’s hands off his shirt, soothing him with kisses and quiet words of comfort as he gets up from the couch. If he doesn’t do this quickly, he’s sure he’ll never do it. 

“Da-da!” Steve calls, voice already wavering, and Tony winces as he speed-walks over to the closet, swinging it open and gripping the handles of the stroller.

“I’m right here, kiddo,” he soothes, “just getting this stroller real quick. Two seconds, tops.” 

Steve’s bottom lip is trembling as he reaches out and makes grabby hands, breaths hitching a little on every inhale as he attempts to shuffle forward off the couch. When that fails, a floodgate of some kind must open, because he immediately breaks out into miserable tears. Tony wheels the stroller over at superhuman speed and sits heavily down on the couch, scooping the kid up in a hug and letting him clutch at his shirt, curling and uncurling his fists as he whimpers and sniffles into his shoulder. After a minute or so of Tony whispering soothing nonsense, hands running up and down his back, Steve draws away, looking a little steadier. 

Meltdown: narrowly averted. 

He uncurls his fist and reaches out for Tony’s hand, his pout smoothing out into a soft smile when Tony places his hand in his. He brings Tony’s hand up to his mouth and — okay. He’s sucking on Tony’s fingers. 

Tony snorts, fondness and amusement tangling together in his chest. “Happy now?” 

Steve just blinks, suckling lazily as he plays with the fingers of Tony’s other hand, making a little delighted noise when Tony wiggles them.

“That all I am to you? Another toy?” Tony asks, fond warmth surging up inside him when Steve carefully intertwines their fingers. 

“Damn. You’re cute. Even when you’re using my fingers as a chew toy. Have you considered not being cute? Think that’d be better for my heart and its various problems.” 

“Da-da,” he says, the words muffled slightly, and Tony nods, smiling despite himself. 

“That’s me, kid. Think you’re ready for bed?” 

Steve lays his head down on his chest with a loud yawn, which Tony will take as a yes. 

He doesn’t actually mind the stroller too much, especially not with the toys that dangle down before him, so it’s not too much of a battle to get him situated. Tony just has to a) wipe his hand down, because, well. Saliva. And b) keep up a string of assurances to make sure that Steve doesn’t think he’s left him. 

The sun has fully set by the time he gets him onto the changing table in his _very_ -little room. He still hasn’t used his diaper — he probably will during the night — so Tony does a quick check to ensure that Bucky added enough diaper powder and cream before deciding to leave it on, seeing as it’s only been about an hour and a half since Bucky called.

“Think it’s time we crack out your bunny onesie, huh?” He tickles Steve’s leg just a little, smiling when he kicks it out with a giggle. “Yeah, I think it is,” he coos. 

_Technically_ , if nobody is witness to his blatant baby-talking, then it didn’t happen. Plus, Tony dares anyone _not_ to baby-talk Steve when he’s looking up at them all wide-eyed and innocent.

It’s bit of a logistical mess, tugging the onesie up Steve’s legs and then asking him to sit up so that he can get his arms through the sleeves, but he manages, and it’s absolutely worth it for the way he ends up looking in the onesie. It’s pure white, save for the pink on his ears and his paws, with fluffy feet and an even fluffier tail.

Something’s missing though. 

“Hm. How about a pacifier?” 

“Ba-ba?” 

“That’s right,” Tony says, nodding, and Steve makes a little happy noise, squirming where he sits, which Tony takes as a yes. He walks over to the shelf with the box of pacifiers sitting atop it, fishing out the white one with a carrot printed onto it, because he knows how to match an outfit, okay. 

So, that’s how Steve ends up blinking up at him with bunny ears flopping partially over his eyes and a white pacifier bobbing in his mouth. Tony’s heart stutters in his chest at the sight.

“You,” he says, moving forward and brushing the bunny ears back, “are a cute baby. You know that?” 

Steve just continues to suckle on his pacifier, perfectly content as he kicks his legs and stares up at Tony with the fascination of someone who’s just made a ground-breaking discovery.

“Alright. Time for bed, kiddo. Let’s get you into your crib.” 

It’s only a few steps away, so Tony manages to take on a bit of his weight and guide him over, opening the gate and helping him settle in. He digs the blanket out from under Steve’s legs and leans over to bring it up to his chin, patting down the sides to ensure he’s adequately swaddled before taking Mr. Rabbit down from the shelf. 

“I think there’s someone here who wants to give you a hug, sweetheart,” he says, as he hovers the stuffie over the bars of the crib.

Steve lets out a squeal of delight, immediately making grabby hands. Tony lowers the bunny down into the circle of his arms, moving its head to give Steve a few pecks on the cheek, which has him giggling madly and babbling rapidly about ‘bu-yees.’ 

Once he’s settled a little, turned over onto his side with Mr. Rabbit wrapped up securely in his arms, his suckling begins to slow, and his eyelids begin to droop. Normally, it takes a bit longer for him to get tired in bed, so Tony can only assume it really was a long mission. He wouldn't be surprised if it has him knocked out a little longer than average too. 

“Da-da,” Steve mumbles, cracking an eye open.

“Right here,” Tony confirms, leaning down to brush a stay strand of hair away from his face.

“Da-da,” he says again, quieter this time, assured, letting his eyes flutter shut once more. 

Tony sits on a nearby chair and grabs the tablet he keeps in this room, for this express purpose, turning the brightness all the way down and opening up his email inbox. It’s a little less stressful, answering business emails, when he has Steve’s snuffling and occasional sleep-babbling to keep him company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i was planning on including little steve on a baby swing/door jumper at some point in this fic but it sort of didn't end up fitting :( but lmk if you'd like to see anything along those lines! :D


	4. little!steve + caregiver!tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> realized i haven't done something with steve's pov yet so have some mindless fluff! ^_^
> 
> no trigger warnings for this one except one brief, very vague allusion to canon-typical violence <3

Steve is bored. 

_So_ bored. 

So bored he might _die_. 

Well, maybe not _that_ bored, but he’s definitely bored, and his Daddy is definitely doing boring grown-up things, that make him feel bored just _listening_ to it. 

He’s saying bored way too much. 

“Like I said, Ross, that’s something to take up with the SI Marketing Department. I mean, hey, look, I can even redirect you to Miss Potts if you’re that worried, but I highly doubt this is going to affect the rollout of the... _yes_ , I’ve seen the article... _yes_ , I—“

Ugh. Steve lays his arms out across the kitchen counter and heaves a sigh, looking over at Mr. Rabbit, who sits on the barstool adjacent to him. His Daddy hasn’t even noticed that he’s breaking the rules by sitting on the barstools, even though he’s a big boy right now. Some of those rules are for when he’s feeling very little, and he could hurt himself. 

“Mr. Rabbit,” he whispers conspiratorially, “are you bored too?” 

He leans over to make Mr. Rabbit bounce up and down on the stool. “Yes! Big stuff is so boring.” 

Steve sighs a little. “You’re right, Mr. Rabbit. But Daddy thinks I’m too little to be a good helper. Do you think that’s true?” 

“I don’t think you’re too little. I think you’re the biggest boy ever!” 

Steve beams. “I knew it!” he whispers.

He peeks through the gap that his folded arms provide, only to find that his Daddy is still doing the dishes, his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder, with a tea towel draped over his shoulder. Steve thinks he should at least be able to help dry the dishes. One time, he’d dropped a plate on accident, but that was only because he was maybe feeling littler than he originally thought he was. He can still help. Plus, he’s not even feeling that little right now. 

He glances down at the pacifier that’s clipped to his hoodie and blushes. Maybe a tiny bit little. But Daddy only clipped that on in case he felt small while he was taking a few calls. And, well, it isn’t really _his_ hoodie, it’s one his Daddy’s bigger hoodies, it smells just like him and everything. He pulled the drawstrings in close and buries his nose in the fabric, inhaling deeply. 

Steve looks up just in time to catch his Daddy setting a sippy cup of juice down on the counter in front of him. He hums happily when his Daddy presses a quick kiss to his forehead before returning to the sink, this time by the drying rack, still chattering away to the adult who’s on the other end of the line. 

And. Well. That maybe makes him feel a bit little. So does the sippy cup that’s sitting in front of him, with big shiny red letters printed onto it that reads: ‘Daddy’s special little guy.’ He smiles as he pulls down the sleeves of the hoodie and brings the plastic nub to his mouth, sweater paws wrapped around the sippy cup. 

“Mr. Wabbit—um, Rabbit, do you think Daddy’ll be all done soon?” he whispers, between sips of orange juice.

Steve reaches over with one hand, fingers barely visible beneath the sweater paw, to move Mr. Rabbit as he says, “I don’t know, Steve, he’s been doing boring stuff for a loooong time.” 

He looks over, but Daddy doesn’t hear him, maybe because his kitchen is _super_ big, and also because he can’t hear some of the stuff that Steve can. Like, sometimes, Steve will hear the elevator from his little room, and he’ll know that someone’s there, but his Daddy will still be surprised when JARVIS tells him someone’s there. 

“Yeah, alright, I got it. I really have to go now, though, so—yeah, no, look, I think we’re done here. It’s been, _wonderful_ really, but—yeah, no. Bye Ross! See you!” Daddy says, very cheerily.

He grumbles a bit as he sets his phone on the counter and grabs the tea towel from over his shoulder, but he _finally_ looks at Steve, a small smile on his face. 

“Sorry, kiddo. Grown-up stuff. Just had to—hey, hey, what’s that pacifier there for, huh? Decoration?” 

Steve’s eyes widen a little as he looks down. He honestly hadn’t meant to start sucking on the drawstrings of the hoodie. “Oops.” 

“Yeah, oops,” Daddy agrees, as he puts away a plate, “also, what are you doing up on that stool?” He pauses for a moment, eyebrows furrowing. “Wait. Hold on. Rewind. How am I just noticing that? Yeah, no. You’re too little to be that high up, kid.” 

He moves toward the marble island, and Steve pouts. “I’m a big boy,” he mumbles. 

“You are,” Daddy agrees, “but even big boys can hurt themselves, so down we get.” 

He helps Steve down from the stool, one hand hovering protectively by his side. Once he’s standing, Steve wraps his hand around his sippy cup and grips Mr. Rabbit’s paw with the other, helping him down like Daddy helped him down. He wriggles his wrist a bit so the sweater paw falls down once more, covering up his fingers.

“Daddy?” he asks, as he takes a small sip of his juice. 

“What’s up?” 

“I’m bored.” 

Daddy smiles, amused. “Bored? No way. What happened to that giant list of things I gave you to do? Had to be at least a _hundred_ different options to choose from there, just for the record.” 

“I did it all, Daddy,” Steve tells him, widening his eyes and looking at him through his lashes. He cuddles Mr. Rabbit close to him, just for good measure. 

“Every single one?” Tony asks, eyebrows raised, “When did I even give you that list? Like two seconds ago?” 

Steve pouts a bit, shaking his head. “It was like _ages_ ago. Mr. Rabbit says so.” 

“You know, I think Mr. Rabbit might be a biased news source.” 

He turns his pouting up a notch. Tony sighs and steps forward, raising a hand to gently cradle the back of Steve’s head as he drops a few kisses to his hair. 

“I know you’re trying to be cute, but it’s working, so. Guess I can dry the dishes later. What do you wanna do, kiddo?” 

Steve brightens immediately. “Stow—um, stories and lights?” 

Tony’s expression softens. “Need some quiet time?”

Steve nods. It’s been a busy week, with lots of Big things going on, and. And that person on that mission who—

That thought hurts his head, so he focuses back on his sippy cup. Daddy said not to worry about any of those big things while he’s little, and that he should just let himself be however young he feels for a while. 

“Alright, we’ll read a few stories, then how does a nap sound?” 

“Good,” Steve says, smiling a little. Naptime usually means cuddles. Storytime does too, so that’s like. Double cuddles. 

The sun is starting to go down when they enter Steve’s _very_ -little room, where they go when he’s feeling extra little, but it has a nice soft bed, so sometimes they go there when Steve’s feeling bigger too. There’s a lot of nice colors in the sky, like oranges, and reds, and pinks. He thinks maybe he’ll try and draw them soon. 

He sets his sippy-cup down on the bedside table, turning toward his Daddy, who’s standing in the middle of the fluffy white rug that Steve likes to lie on sometimes, even though it’s a bit tickly. 

“Can you tell me if you think you need a pull-up, sweetheart?” he asks. 

Steve thinks about it for a moment. “Ummm. No.”

Daddy raises an eyebrow. “You don’t sound so sure.” 

Steve shrugs, feeling frustrated tears well in his eyes all of a sudden. He’s felt strange all afternoon, like he isn’t totally little, but he’s also _very_ little, and he doesn’t know how to feel. “I don’t know, Daddy.” 

His Daddy’s gaze softens. “Hey, that’s alright. It’s okay to not be sure — you just to have to let me know. How about we get into you into a pull-up just in case, then?” 

Steve nods, feeling a bit embarrassed as he shuffles his socked feet on the carpet and hugs Mr. Rabbit close to his chest. 

“Feeling icky, baby?” Daddy asks, as he moves forward to run a warm hand up and down Steve’s arm. 

“Icky,” Steve agrees tearily. 

“Have you been feeling icky all day?” 

He nods, and Daddy shakes his head, moving his hand up to Steve’s hair and pushing it gently back from his forehead. “You gotta tell Daddy when you’re feeling icky, remember? I would’ve turned off my phone.” 

Steve sniffles. His throat feels icky too all of a sudden. “Gwown-up stuffs.” 

“Grown up stuff can wait if my kiddo’s not feeling good. It’s okay, though, just—for next time, how about that, can you promise you’ll tell me? Or use your word for when you’re feeling icky?” 

Steve nods, clinging tightly to Mr. Rabbit. “Stowies ‘n lights?” 

Daddy nods. “Of course, kid. Let’s just get you changed into a pull-up and something softer first, alright?” 

“Awight.” 

His Daddy walks over to the wardrobe and fishes around for a few moments before withdrawing his softest blue footie pajamas and laying them out on the bed. Steve feels a little better after his Daddy helps him step into a pull-up — at least if he has an accident, there won’t be any mess to clean up.

He helps Steve into his footie pajamas too, which is good, because he’s starting to feel even smaller, and getting dressed is hard. He tries to button the pajamas up, but Daddy ends up doing it for him, giving his stomach an affectionate pat once he’s done. 

“There. Nice and soft.” 

“Soft,” Steve agrees. 

He removes the pacifier clip from the sweater Steve had been wearing, and Steve feels just a bit embarrassed when he attaches it to the footie pajamas. 

“Big boy,” Steve reminds him, because Daddy forgets things sometimes.

Daddy smiles and pats his cheek. “Just in case. JARVIS, be a dear and hit us with the galaxy lights, will you?” 

The ceiling lights up with like, a _thousand_ stars, purple and pink and sparkly. Steve bounces up onto the balls of his feet, smiling in delight. 

Daddy chuckles as he pulls back the bed covers, and Steve holds on tight to Mr. Rabbit as he crawls in under them, right toward the edge of the bed. The bed covers drop back down, and he hears his Daddy gasp.

“Where’d my big boy go?” 

Giggles immediately bubble up from Steve’s chest, but he tries to muffle the sound with his palm. 

“JARVIS, have you seen him?” 

“I don’t believe I have, Sir.” 

Daddy sighs loudly. “That’s a real shame. Do you think maybe he’ll tell us where he is?”

Steve places a hand over Mr. Rabbit’s mouth too, just in case. 

“Because if I don’t know where he is, then I guess I’ll just have to sell all his toys,” he says, mournfully. 

Steve immediately sticks his head out from the covers with a pout, and Daddy laughs.

“Oh, hey. Fancy seeing you here.” 

He sticks his bottom lip out some more, and his Daddy moves forward to pepper a few placating kisses on his forehead. “Okay, alright, I’m sorry. Bad joke. I won’t sell your toys.” He pauses. “If you’re good,” he adds.

Steve looks up at him with wide, betrayed eyes. Daddy shakes his head, smiling fondly as he sits down on the bed and wriggles his way beneath the covers beside Steve. “Okay, okay, no toy selling at all, I promise. Should we shake on it?” 

Steve nods, worming his hand out from the covers for a handshake that his Daddy quickly reciprocates. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

“Daddy’s silly,” he sighs, as he snuggles in close, burying his nose in the fabric of his Daddy’s shirt. 

“It’s a sickness,” he agrees, as he leans over toward the bookshelf. “Let’s see. How about...the one about the curious cat?” 

Steve smiles and nods eagerly, while his Daddy takes the book and sits up against the headboard of the bed. He moves to sit in between his Daddy’s legs, leaning back against his chest. Daddy may be silly, but he has a very good reading voice, and the way he brings the blankets up to Steve’s chest and presses kisses to his cheek as he holds out the book in front of him makes Steve feel extra small. He cuddles Mr. Rabbit close and snuggles into his Daddy’s chest, humming happily when that gets him a kiss on the forehead. Cuddles and kisses always make him feel little.

As his Daddy begins to read, Steve finally relaxes, glancing up occasionally at all of the pretty stars on the ceiling. He really wants to draw them too. His fingers begin to creep up towards his mouth of their own accord, but Daddy intercepts them, popping his pacifier into his mouth instead before continuing to read. 

By the time the story is finished it’s starting to get even darker outside, and Steve is feeling very fuzzy, sucking slowly on his pacifier as his Daddy closes the book and leans over for a moment to replace it on the bookshelf.

“Is that my baby? Or my big boy?” he asks, voice gentle and low.

Steve turns to nuzzle into his shirt, which pulls a soft laugh from his Daddy. 

“Alright. You seem pretty little right now, kiddo. Want me to stay for your nap before dinner?” 

Steve nods, and Daddy moves them so that they’re lying down under the covers. He winds his hands around Steve’s back, too, as Steve curls up on his side as much as possible and lets out a happy little hum at how warm his Daddy is, squirming to get nice and comfy.

“All cozy?” 

“Cozy,” Steve confirms, cracking one eye open for just a brief moment to get another look at the stars.

He feels small and warm and safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo this was entirely born from my brain randomly going 'okay but domestic soft dad tony doing the dishes and taking a call' 
> 
> had to dial down some of the bigger word choices on this one and flat out cut a paragraph here or there (it's officially hit me that i could spend at least ten thousand years describing an environment) but i hope it had some of the child-like quality i was going for! ^-^ 
> 
> (also can we count mr. rabbit as a recurring character yet? asking for a friend.)


	5. little!steve + caregiver!tony (+ sam & bucky)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick lil ficlet where tony talks softly and steve accidentally slips into headspace ! (but it’s okay tony takes care of him) 
> 
> i’ll be starting on requests next chapter so if you’d like to see something you haven’t requested yet feel free to lmk and i’ll add it to my list! <3

It’s a busy PR day for the Avengers — two press conferences regarding their most recent missions and a charity event that’s just a little upclass for Steve to be entirely comfortable. He can tolerate the smaller events, especially for the sake of charity, but they’re currently in the Upper East Side, with its mind-bogglingly expensive stores and designer brands and sparkling, high-end restaurants. 

Steve knows it’s a little ironic, considering the tower he calls a home, but he’s come to appreciate the expansive floors and the mark that the Avengers have left on each one, signs of life tucked away into every crevice. It’s a distinct counterpoint to this stifling gala, with laughter that rings out hollow and conversations that are simultaneously superficial and exhausting. 

And Tony, he. He just navigates the highs and lows of it all like a seasoned pro, charm dialed up to a hundred. There’s a dazzling smile painted across his face as he flits between groups, as he works larger swarms of people with effortless wit and wheedling and familiarity, and  _ god,_ Steve just wants to know how he does it, really. How he remembers little details about each person he interacts with, how he plays off their energy and their words like it’s an artform and perfectly concocts his expressions to align with whoever he’s entertaining or coaxing into donating. 

Even  _Fury_ openly loves just how good Tony is at these Avengers PR events, because he may have a certain level of infamy to his name, and he may have a talent for easily cutting people down with his words, he also has a talent for building them back up when he really sets his mind to it. 

Steve watches with barely-concealed admiration as Tony parts with a particular group, his eyes softening around the corners when he spots Steve hiding away on a plush couch that’s tucked away into the corner. Tony may have the social energy to withstand these events, but Steve is a pretty reserved person, and he generally needs some alone time to recharge his batteries. 

He definitely doesn’t mind when Tony approaches, though, the gentle curve of his mouth a far-cry from the sharp-edged smiles he’d been handing out all evening. Steve shuffles over to make room and Tony sits down heavily by the arm of the couch with a heaving sigh. 

“Tired of sucking up to all those old ladies yet, Cap? No, wait, let me guess, it was those military bigwigs, wasn’t it? Swear I saw one of them with those vintage Cap trading cards that Coulson spent a small fortune on.” 

A small smile tugs at Steve’s lips. He feels the panicked knot in his gut loosen a bit, feeling the warmth Tony radiates pressed all along his side. It’s a comforting sort of heat that flows through his skin, rather than the stifling, oppressive atmosphere of the gala. 

“All of the above?” he says, as he directs his gaze out toward the crowds. 

Tony huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Well. Can’t say I blame you.” He swivels a bit to face him. “So, wanna hear the gossip or what?” 

Steve tries to maintain a neutral expression despite his quiet amusement. “That feels wrong,” he says, even as Tony leans in to point out a particular couple that are, apparently, both cheating on each other. 

It’s not unusual, exactly, for them to exchange quiet chatter at events like these, leaning in to be heard. Steve honestly doesn’t know what it is about the particular timbre of Tony’s voice this time, but it flows over him like a gentle tide, and he can’t help but press in, focusing less so the exact words leaving Tony’s mouth and more so on the softness underlying his tone, the points of contact that bring them together. 

“See that guy over there? Nope, little to the left. Liiiitle more—“ Tony gently tilts his head so he can see, while Steve tries not to notice how coaxing his tone is, which is virtually impossible. 

Tony’s gossip devolves quickly into a tangent about his experience with the new CEO of Hammer Industries, then another aside about just how laughable their tech is. Steve recognizes the floaty feeling that descends over his brain the longer Tony talks, the cadence of his voice low and soft and smooth. He’s swiveled to face Steve as he directs his attention to various people in the room, and Steve doesn’t know why it suddenly feels like Tony’s voice is so reminiscent of the voice he uses to talk to him while he’s little. His face warms a bit at the thought of the baby-talk that Tony slips into sometimes when he’s  _ really _ young, the soft way he reads stories, the silly voices he falls into while—

“Steve?” 

Steve startles, a frisson of shock racing down his spine at just how close he’d subconsciously shuffled. His fingers twitch restlessly, twisting together on his lap as he moves away. 

“Don’t tell me I’m boring Captain America,” Tony says, amused, “honestly, I don’t know whether to be offended or to try and hustle you to the nearest bed. Because, you know, sleep is important, or so I’ve been told. Even for All-American supersoldiers.” 

He lets out a breath. Tony thinks he’s just tired.

“Sorry. Just, uh. Zoned out,” he says, flashing a quick smile, “but that Stark expo — the, the ex-wife missile?” 

Tony’s eyes crinkle with laughter at the name alone. “Oh my god. The ex-wife missile, that’s right. Hammer had my armor totally defiled with—“

Steve relaxes, slumping back into the couch as Tony continues his quiet rambling, gesturing about enthusiastically with his hands. Except, now there’s a smile on his face as he talks, a slight upturn of lips, and there’s a renewed burst of chatter from the surrounding groups of people, so he leans in just a little closer. 

“Look, if we’re being totally honest here, I play the exact look on Hammer’s face when he realized he was going to jail on repeat. JARVIS plays it when I’m stressed, it’s like magic, except better, because I hate that stuff. Sorry not sorry, Doctor Strange. But really, nothing else does the trick like it.” 

He does a somewhat crude imitation of Hammer’s expression, and Steve barely smothers a giggle at the sight of it. It’s been a few weeks now, and...and maybe he’s feeling a tiny bit little and floaty. Even though he definitely shouldn’t be. Because, because they’re in public and they’re at a charity gala and anyone could see them, which means he has to be big, even if his Daddy is making silly faces. Tony! Even if Tony’s making... _ interesting _ ...faces. 

Tony moves on from impassioned rambling to a more mellow discussion of his day, his voice softening just a fraction more as he directs his gaze toward the hustle and bustle that fills the room. The thing is, Tony is generally a pretty loud person with all of his bluster and his snark, so his quiet voice only surfaces in rarer moments, when the situation calls for it or when he’s talking to Steve in littlespace, calling him sweetheart or telling him he’s a good boy, in a tender voice that always manages to curl around Steve’s heart and wrap tight. 

Steve squirms a bit at the thought, and feels a flush steadily blooming on his face. He should really try and be big right now, but Tony’s voice is just making him feel very little, and floaty, and safe, and...and, wow, it really has been a few weeks, hasn’t it? And they’re in a big, big fancy hall with glittery chandeliers and everything is so bright and loud and jarring, and Tony’s solid warmth all along his side is the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment.

He doesn’t exactly realize that Tony has stopped talking until he feels the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder, which prompts him to look up. There’s a slight furrow to Tony’s eyebrows now.

“Feeling little, sweetheart?” 

Well. He is  _ now._

Steve can’t temper the whine that clambers up his throat as he turns his face to bury it in the couch cushions. He can’t help it. Sometimes, sometimes Da— _ Tony _ can make him feel small and safe without even actively trying, and he just wants to curl up inside that soft tone and pretend these crowds and Big People don’t exist. 

“What brought this on, hm?” Tony murmurs, turning a bit more to face him.

He presses his undoubtedly warm face further into the cushions, wedged in between the couch and Tony’s shoulder. One quick peek up at Tony confirms that he’s got his calculating expression in full gear, eyes gleaming with curious intent as he regards Steve. After a few moments, realization flashes across his face, and Steve returns to his hiding spot, ever so slightly mortified. He simultaneously loves and hates that Tony is so perceptive, so good at reading him, because it means he often doesn’t have to voice just what he wants but it also leaves him feeling inexplicably exposed. 

Tony makes a sympathetic noise, running a palm up and down Steve’s arm. “Sorry, kiddo. Guess I gotta watch my quiet voice, huh?” 

Steve peers up at him through his lashes. Tony offers him a small yet infinitely warm smile. “Yeah. It _has_ been a while. Personally, I think it’s been way too long since I got some cuddles from my kid. Seems like that should be a crime.” 

Steve nuzzles into Tony’s shoulder, can’t help it really, arms curling around his midsection as he tries to make himself as small as possible. He doesn’t want to be here — he wants to be at home getting cuddles from his Daddy. If he squeezes his eyes shut, he can almost imagine he  is home, warm light flooding Tony’s floor and soft lullabies floating through the air courtesy of JARVIS. 

“Looks like you’re dropping pretty quick, kiddo, so I’m gonna text Hap to come pick us up soon. Event’s starting to wind down, anyway. Fury won’t be too furious. Ha ha, see what I did there?” 

Steve cracks an eye open purely to give him a judgmental look. Tony laughs. “Yeah, alright. Too soon for dad jokes. Got it.” He taps out a quick message while Steve focuses on not bringing his thumb up to his mouth or rocking too much or doing any other little things. 

“Alright, cupcake, Hap’s on his way. Got an ETA of like, five minutes or something. Think you can hold out till then?” 

Steve mumbles something unintelligible into Tony’s shoulder, and Tony keeps up the soothing pats down his arm with another sympathetic hum. “Yeah. I know. My kiddo just wants to be little for a while, is that it? Get away from this icky grown-up stuff?” 

He nods, nose scrunching. “Icky.” 

“ _So _ icky,” Tony agrees, “honestly, the only descriptor that really encapsulates all this adulting business.”

It’s a little jarring, feeling the stiff lines of Tony’s perfectly tailored suit, smelling the expensive cologne he wears for events like these. Usually Tony is in soft, casual clothes while Steve is little, minimal flare or hair gel or...or  _big_ things, because it’s those smaller details that can coalesce and snap Steve from his headspace. It also feels inexplicably  safe, Tony being all in business mode, silver cufflinks and silk ties, like he’s...like he’s the adult in this situation. And Steve can just be little. Even if he’s also in an icky suit and tie. 

“Hey, well would you look at that,  there’s the disaster duo I’ve been avoiding all evening.” 

Steve looks up from his hiding spot in Tony’s shoulder, a small smile flickering over his lips at the sight of Sam and Bucky. 

Sam scoffs as he takes a seat next to Steve. “I’ll have you know I totally smoothed a few of those military dudes over.” 

Tony arches an eyebrow. “And you, Barnes?”

“Moral support,” he supplies, giving Sam a pat on the shoulder, “mostly from a distance.” 

“Yeah. Like a coward,” says Sam.

“Oh, we doing this again?” 

“Sure, why not? I got nothing better to do.” 

Steve looks between them as they talk, shifting nervously when their gazes eventually fall on him. It must be easy to spot, even if Steve’s trying to hang onto a semblance of his adult mindset, because he watches the same realization dawn on their faces. 

Sam’s gaze flicks toward Tony, and he must get some form of confirmation, because he nods minutely. “Actually, uh, Bucky and I have a story,” he says. 

“We do?” Bucky glances over at Sam, who pins him with a warning look. “Oh,  _ yeah_, right, we do. Have a story, that is. How’d it start again?” 

“It was about a prince, I’m pretty sure,” Sam says, nodding like he’s absolutely confident in what he’s saying. 

Steve smiles and curls up a bit, swiveling to face the pair. He knows they’re being silly, but focusing on Sam and Bucky is always better than focusing on all the bright lights and the discordant sounds, and what entry points and exit points and windows and escape routes there are and—

“Right, and I think he had...had brown hair, right? Like, you know, a tree branch. After being banished from his kingdom, he was left to fend for himself out in the wilderness.” 

“Where he meets a talking cat,” Sam continues.

“With snow white fur,” Bucky adds, “and a magic crown that can never be taken off its head, because of a curse placed on it by the forest’s witch. But it’s happy, don’t worry. I mean, the crown is a pain sometimes—“

“—But it also keeps its fur pure white,” Sam says, “which is why the prince almost doesn’t notice him, with all the snow around. It’s always snowing, where the cat is, part of its winter curse. But the cat likes snow, so that’s pretty cool. It’d be worse if it were a summer cat.” 

Steve giggles, swinging his legs just a little as he leans into Sam’s side. This story is pretty silly, but he still likes the way they’re bouncing off each other, and Tony seems to find it pretty silly too, if his occasional snorts of laughter are anything to go by. 

By the time Tony is murmuring to him that the car is here, Steve is relaxed and happy, but he still wants to get home as quickly as possible. Tony stands up from the couch and offers Steve a hand.

“You guys coming home with us?” he asks, directing the question toward Sam and Bucky.

“Hell yeah. If you’re ditching, then I’m ditching,” Sam says, getting up from the couch. Bucky is quick to follow suit — he isn’t much one for crowds either. 

Tony’s hand brushes fleetingly against his as they exit through one of the more discreet backdoors, and Steve really, really just wants to cuddle up to him, but he smothers that urge as best he can for the time being, allowing himself to be ushered into the backseat of a sleek black limousine while Sam and Bucky take a few seats toward the front. 

It’s pitch black outside, and the darkness that blankets them brings forth the subtle exhaustion Steve has been feeling throughout the day, not even of the physical variety — his social batteries are depleted, and he really doesn’t want to have to worry about charity galas or press questions, he just. 

He just wants his daddy. 

Tony reaches over to do up his seatbelt for him, rubbing his tummy in soothing motions as he buckles him up. That’s probably good, too, because Steve doesn’t trust his hands right now. 

“There. All buckled up. Safe and everything.”

He smiles, latching onto Tony and snuggling in close. Tony chuckles, winding an arm around his torso and drawing him in close, patting his side rhythmically. 

“Daddy,” he mumbles, resting his chin on Tony’s chest as he gazes up at him. 

Tony presses a kiss to the tip of his nose, which is nice, even if it makes him scrunch his shoulders up a bit. 

“Soon as we’re back at the tower, you don’t have to worry about anything but being my special little guy, huh? Not even icky galas.” 

His Daddy brushes his hair back from his forehead and presses a kiss there, which has Steve’s heart stuttering inside his chest. He  never feels as small as he does while Tony is holding him and giving him kisses, which is a feat, considering that he’s not exactly the smallest person around, physically. 

Tony’s gaze flits about the limousine for a moment, a brief frown creasing his forehead. “Hm. No blankets. Looks like I gotta get them restocked.” He thinks for a moment, before gently extricating himself from Steve’s hold, shushing him when he starts to fuss. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, just—improvising,” he says, as he shrugs his suit jacket off. “Can Daddy get you out of that icky jacket?” he asks, as he undoes his cuff links and rolls his sleeves up his forearms, exposing tan skin. He takes a moment to loosen his tie too. Steve nods, watching curiously as Tony undoes his buttons and helps push the jacket up off his shoulders, draping it over the back of the leather seats before them. 

He wraps his own suit jacket around Steve’s shoulders so that it hangs off them, and a slow smile spreads across Steve’s face as he pulls the edges of the sleeves in close. Daddy always has the best ideas. The smell of his cologne is caught between the fine threads, and being wrapped up in anything that belongs to Tony is always enough to make him small. 

Steve returns to his place snuggled up against Tony’s side, and Tony winds an arm around him once more, rubbing his tummy soothingly with the other one. 

“‘M not—not feeling so big, Daddy,” he admits quietly, grip tightening a little on his Daddy’s fancy shirt. 

His Daddy looks surprised, maybe because Steve likes to be a big boy, but...but he isn’t feeling very much like a big boy right now. He’s all fuzzy and floaty and small. 

“Alright, well that’s okay — definitely don’t mind having a cuddly baby, either,” he says, smiling as he gives Steve’s side a quick tickle. 

Steve squirms, smiling as he bats his daddy’s evil hand away. “Bad Daddy.” 

“Very bad daddy,” Daddy agrees with a solemn nod, “terrorizing his baby like that. How could anyone be so cruel?” 

Naturally, his evil fingers dig in again right after those words, and his Daddy smiles as Steve bursts into giggles, twisting to get away. He’s tired enough afterward that he leans into his Daddy’s chest and settles his thumb inside his mouth. 

“You know, I’m sure if you asked nicely Bucky and Sam might continue their story,” Daddy says, nodding his head toward the front seat. 

Sam and Bucky look over from their conversation, and Steve smiles shyly around his thumb. 

“Um, could, could Sam and Bucky do story, like, like with the snow white cat and, um. Crown? Please?” 

Sam grins. “Sure, kid. We can do that. Where were we again?” 

“The prince finding the witch cat,” Bucky supplies.

“Right! Right.” 

As Steve sucks on his thumb and listens to the (silly) story with rapt attention, a lot of giggles and few occasional interjections, he finds himself feeling very grateful for the fact that he has people in his life who make him feel so small and safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so unbelievably soft for tony’s soft dad aesthetic in ca:cw and it SHOWS. (but like, also we ignore that whole movie in this house, i don’t know what a civil war is. all i know is that tony has soft dad vibes in it.)


	6. little!steve + babysitter!bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some babysitter!bucky for stuckyspetertony !! family avengers didn't quite end up fitting but i'll definitely come back to that in another ficlet <33
> 
> p.s. if a oneshot gets too long i'll post it separately to this series, instead of to this specific collection of ficlets, check out the oneshot i posted [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715363) if u want! 
> 
> (( i'm hoping that link embedded correctly lol let's see ))

Believe it or not, Bucky had, at one stage, been under the impression that he’d settle down with a nice girl one day, live out a relatively normal post-war life.

Now — now he’s almost a hundred years old, he’s spent about seventy of those years being an assassin for the terrorist organization he’d fought during said war, and he’s currently living in a tower with a ridiculously mixed bag of superheroes, assassins and billionaires and _gods_. 

Oh, and the friend he still struggles to remember from a life that seems so far away it’s almost detached from his own feels and acts like a kid sometimes.

In the grand scheme of Bucky’s life, that’s probably the most unremarkable thing he’s encountered thus far. In fact, the most astounding aspect of it, based on the scrambled fragments of memory he can clutch to on a good day, is the fact that Steve is letting himself be cared for whatsoever, that he seems to be reasonably at peace with not putting everybody in the world before himself constantly. 

Bucky knows, knows that someone can only push back so fiercely against the world before it wheedles them down, until they start to develop sharper, more jagged edges. He also knows that the person he remembers snatches of isn’t the person that sits before him these days, isn’t the person that runs his knuckles along the backs of his teammates’ hands to check if they’re okay, that invites them outside if he receives a head shake, however subtle or minute. Isn’t the person that smiles through the dark during movie nights, bright and relaxed and _happy,_ like some of those edges have finally been softened. 

Bucky still struggles with emotions, with feeling them so intensely after seventy years of a mindless fog, but he knows he likes the way contentment looks on Steve. It’s not there all the time — not for any of them, but it’s far easier to come by now, and he thinks that’s all anyone could hope for. He can’t see himself feeling any sort of peace, not for a long time, and he’s not sure if he deserves it, in all honesty. Not with the incriminatingly red smear that stains his hands, no matter how much he scrubs his skin raw. 

He’s glad that Steve has found a way to cope, maybe even a little guilty that he didn’t notice the signs earlier, despite not having much clue of what exactly to look for. Still, it was an undeniable adjustment at first, seeing Steve in such a child-like frame of mind, so _vulnerable._ Bucky still can’t help the pang of fear that grips him at how fragile his easy smiles seem while he’s little, can’t help the inexplicable protectiveness that surges up inside him, alongside an almost foggy sense of déjà vu. But, the more exposure he gets, the more it feels natural, the more he doesn’t even have to think about clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder and asking him if he wants to play any games, piecing together jigsaw puzzles with him and watching him gleefully play dress-up with his dolls. 

Even all the other aspects of Steve and Tony’s dynamic have become so standard that Bucky doesn’t bat an eye when they join them for movie night and Steve has a pacifier in his mouth, or if he’s trailing after Tony with a bottle in his clutches, looking shyer than Bucky has seen him his whole damn life.

Which is why, when a frazzled-looking Tony nearly trips over himself in the process of entering Bucky’s floor and asking him in a blur of words if he’ll mind Steve for a while, Bucky doesn’t even consider saying no. 

“Pep and Rhodey aren’t even in the country, Thor’s out, _everyone’s_ out, _I_ am out, like, _mentally_ checked-out, actually like, losing my goddamn _mind,_ Barnes, and I got a whole bunch of people who—“

“ _Tony_. Relax. Geez, ought to get you a chill pill or something.” 

“I _am_ relaxed,” Tony asserts, eyes lit from within by an almost manic gleam that would probably scare Bucky if he wasn’t so jaded, “I am _so_ relaxed. Do I not look relaxed to you? JARVIS, do I—oh! Totally caught that by the way. Trying out some new slang, you know, it’s admirable, but I promise you right now, no one says ‘chill pill’ anymore.” 

Bucky frowns. “I heard it on the radio just the other—“

“ _No one,_ ” Tony emphasizes, “just take my word for it, alright? If you’re lucky, a dame might find it endearing.” There’s a smirk tugging at his mouth that pulls an automatic sigh from Bucky.

Call a lady a dame _once_ and you never hear the end of it. 

“I’ll look after Steve,” he says, because if he stokes this fire then it’s most certainly going to rage out of control, “just — do whatever it is you gotta do.” 

“Oh, you mean save an entire block? Got it. Will do.” 

Before Bucky can even _think_ to ask what the hell he’s talking about or why the other Avengers haven’t been notified, Tony is scrambling for the elevator and tapping away at his watch, calling the suit to him no doubt. Bucky takes a good moment to suck in a slow, even breath, pinching the bridge of his nose against the headache he can already feel building somewhere by his temples. 

“JARVIS, make sure that idiot doesn’t get himself killed,” he says, resigned. Sam and Tony seem to _really_ enjoy pushing the serum’s limits in terms of premature gray hairs. 

“As always, I will do my utmost, Sergeant Barnes. Might I encourage you to visit the young Captain? He is currently on Sir’s floor.” 

“What’s he up to?” Bucky asks, standing from the couch. 

“He’s drawing with crayons. A rabbit, I believe.” 

Bucky snorts. “Sounds about right.” 

He realizes, as he steps out onto Tony’s floor, that he hasn’t actually been here since he last helped Steve out in his headspace, when he’d _really_ slipped. It’s an open-plan affair exactly like the other living floors — Bucky isn’t sure what he expected, really — except there are hints scattered about the place of Steve’s little side, a child-proof cupboard here or a stray crayon there. Things that may not even particularly jump out at someone until they round the corner and find the coffee table totally covered in newspapers, littered with crayon marks, a couple of toys strewn about the place. 

Steve’s gaze flits up to him but only briefly before he returns to his drawing, tongue poking out a little in concentration. He certainly doesn’t seem surprised. 

“Hey buddy,” he greets tentatively, as he rounds the couch and takes a seat, perching somewhat precariously at the edge of it. 

“Hi Bucky,” comes the chirpy response, as he tilts his page, leaning further over the table. 

That’s something else Bucky has picked up on — Steve tends toward calling him Buck while he’s big, and Bucky while he’s little. He doesn’t know why exactly, and he definitely hasn’t asked, because it’s a rare subject that brings out this almost mortified embarrassment in Steve that Bucky doesn’t for the life of him know how to navigate. 

He clears his throat. “Need me to clean that pacifier over there for you?” he asks, nodding toward the blue pacifier that joins the scattered items on the floor. 

Steve shakes his head. “That’s for babies,” he says, like it’s a simple fact and he’s merely informing Bucky of it. 

Bucky barely smothers a smile. “Oh, that’s right. Shoulda known.” 

He allows the silence that follows to stretch on for a few seconds before saying, “so, To—your Daddy had to leave, huh? That sucks.” 

Steve stops coloring for a moment to consider this, sitting back on his haunches. He chews at his bottom lip and distorted fragments of that same habit flood Bucky’s brain, of a smaller, frailer Steve chewing his bottom lip raw in an attempt to get a hold of his emotions, to prevent them from spilling out all over the place. 

“I’m a big boy,” he says finally, nodding decisively as he returns to his drawing — a purple rabbit in a field of rainbow sunflowers, upon closer inspection. 

Bucky shifts restlessly, unsure whether pushing anymore would be fruitless or not, whether he’s overthinking and he should just drop it. He _does_ have a talent for overanalyzing every possible detail given to him — he needs it, to feel safe. In control. But it also means that his brain catches a pair of shifty eyes out in public and seizes it, starts to race with the idea that some HYDRA operative is tailing him. 

“Does that mean you don’t wanna play hide and seek?” he settles on asking. 

Steve’s gaze snaps up immediately. Something Bucky can’t quite decipher flashes across his face. “Big boys can play hide ‘n seek,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything. 

“Sure they can,” Bucky says, “I’m playing, aren’t I?” 

A smile breaks out on Steve’s face, and relief washes over Bucky at the sight. “But you’re _really_ big.” 

He sighs, put-upon. “I know. Sucks, right?” 

Steve’s smile takes on a deceptively innocent edge as he shrugs with one shoulder, eyes flicking back to his drawing. Bucky lowers himself down onto the carpeted floor, carefully pushing aside a stray lego piece. 

“We don’t have to play hide and seek. I could help you with this pretty drawing.” 

“We could...maybe after?” Steve suggests, squirming a bit to find a comfortable position. 

“Sure thing. Where do you need me?” 

Steve regards his drawing for a moment, eyebrows furrowed with thought. “Hmmmm. You can do the sky.” 

“Copy that,” says Bucky, reaching for a pale blue. 

He gets a pleased little smile for his efforts as Steve leans over the table for the deep purple he’d abandoned. The page is a riot of color — Steve’s scribbling crayon tends to stray from the penciled outline of his drawing a fair amount — and it’s certainly more experimental than Steve’s usual drawings, but Bucky thinks it has a good amount of charm. Maybe he’s biased.

“This is one big rabbit,” he comments, as he fills in a section of the sky with careful zig-zag motions. 

Steve nods, gaze fixated on the fur he’s coloring. “It can hop to Australia,” he says, matter-of-fact. 

Bucky blinks. “Australia?” 

“Yeah. _Really_ far. Daddy said so.” 

He really isn’t sure whether Tony told him that Australia is far away or that giant rabbits can hop continents, but either way, there’s definitely a smile twitching on his face despite his best efforts. “Seems like a pretty powerful rabbit.” 

“That’s because it has powers. But you can’t tell anyone, because it’s a secret.” 

Bucky gives a solemn nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

A peaceful sort of silence lapses between them as they go about filling in their respective portions of the drawing, until nearly every square inch of the paper is rife with color. Steve scrutinizes it for a few long moments before breaking out into a smile. 

“We did it.” 

“We did,” Bucky confirms, “looks even prettier now that it’s all colored in.” He pauses here, regarding the drawing himself. “I think it’s missing something, though.” 

Steve looks a little crestfallen at that, so Bucky rushes to continue, “it’s great! But I’m pretty sure it needs your signature, if you wanna make it official.” 

His expression brightens in an instant, only to drop with confusion. “Where does it go?” 

“Right here,” Bucky says, tapping the bottom corner of the page. He fishes out a black crayon from the chaos and offers it to Steve, who gives him a tiny smile as he takes it and writes out his name. His movements are slower, a bit uncoordinated, but it’s still undeniably his handwriting, scrawling letters with e’s that almost look like c’s. He hands Bucky the crayon with an expectant look, tapping the space beside his name when all he gets are a few rapid blinks.

“You helped,” he says, earnest, “so you should sign too, or else it won’t be fair.” 

Bucky lets out a breath, smiling as he accepts the crayon and adds his name, mimicking the size of Steve’s print. He feels the smile go soft on his face as Steve bounces up from his seat with an enthusiastic “all done!” and sets about systematically replacing each crayon within its specific place inside the box.

A glance up at the clock confirms that it’s about midday, the previously cloudy morning has cleared right up and sun pours in through the windows uninhibited now, painting the mahogany wood of the coffee table of a warm gold. Lunch should probably happen soon, but Steve’s expression when he turns to Bucky again is bright with hope, and he can’t bring himself to put off hide and seek. 

“Alright. I think we should head down to the communal floor, so we’re not poking around Tony’s floor too much. A few rounds, then we’ll see about lunch, huh?” 

Steve wrinkles his nose a bit at the lunch part of the equation, but he doesn’t object when Bucky gets to his feet and offers him a hand. He’s not wearing anything particularly suggestive of his headspace today — not like those onesies that practically scream _‘wrap me up in blankets’_ — just a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a faded shirt that almost looks like one of Tony’s, a little frayed around the edges. Still, he looks _young_ in a way that’s hard to pinpoint, gaze void of its usual vigilance, its sharpness. There’s a significant difference between Steve while he’s relaxed and Steve while he’s little, but there are some similarities, too. 

He bounces ahead the moment the elevator doors open, coming to a halt by the couch. “Can I count first?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Alright. But only if you can tell me the rule about seeking.” 

Steve gives him a cheeky little smile. “No asking JARVIS where people are.” 

“Unless…?” 

“Unless I wanna end the game.” 

Bucky ruffles his hair, a smile tugging at his lips when Steve scrunches his shoulders up with a giggle. “Exactly. ‘Cause JARVIS is biased.” 

“If I may Sargent Barnes — there was no protocol preventing my answering the young Captain’s inquiry.” There’s an undertone of amusement to his voice that really should surprise Bucky, considering this is an AI talking, but there really isn’t a whole lot that can startle him these days.

“Yeah, sure. We’ll go with that.”

Steve’s eyebrows are still knitted like he’s trying to process the meaning of JARVIS’ words, so Bucky taps his shoulder. “Ready to count, bud?” 

His expression clears up immediately and he nods eagerly, bringing his hands up to cover his eyes. 

“1...2...3…” 

His soft counting floats through the hall as Bucky sets about locating a decent hiding spot somewhere on the floor. He’s had countless years of experience blending seamlessly into his surroundings and a few spots jump out at him almost automatically as he passes them, but he doesn’t want to make it _too hard_ for Steve so he settles for the storage room, with boxes pretty much as far as the eye can see, resembling an almost twisted maze. 

It’s a few minutes before he hears padding footsteps approach the door, followed by the click of a switch that floods the room with light. Silence falls for a few lingering moments, no doubt as Steve scans for any signs of him. A couple more footsteps echo out as he wanders forward, poking between boxes. When Bucky hears Steve make for the door once more, he considers giving himself away, but then those footsteps halt once more. 

There’s a small gasp, and it isn’t long before Steve is poking his head over the boxes in Bucky’s little corner with a smile. 

“Found you,” he says. 

Bucky dusts himself off as he stands. “You found me,” he confirms, “almost starting to think this game’s getting too easy.” 

Steve bounces up onto his toes as they head toward the door, Bucky’s hand hovering by his back. “I almost didn’t, didn’t find you,” he says, “but Sam hid there too, when we were playing hide n’ seek.” 

“Damn. So you found me because Sam stole my spot?” 

That pulls a little giggle from Steve. “He didn’t steal it. He just hid there. Also, also, Daddy says it’s good to share.” 

Bucky lets out a sigh, smiling as he steers Steve back into the living room. “Guess I can’t really argue with that.” 

The following few rounds follow a very similar pattern, save for one where Bucky genuinely can’t find Steve anywhere, only to find that he’d somehow managed to hide behind the projector in the theatre room. Lunch sort of ends up being a little later than anticipated, especially because Bucky spends about ten minutes puttering about the kitchen deciding what to make. Based on what he’s seen, Tony generally prefers to give Steve something nutritious at mealtimes. He pulls out the freezer draw and scrutinizes its contents. There are some chicken nuggets there shaped like stars and hearts and flowers, which is. _Interesting._ The packaging looks like it’s geared toward kids, so that has to count for something, right? 

_With some veggies and fruit,_ he decides with a nod, as he fishes the box out from the drawer and closes it. He sends a glance toward the kitchen island, eyebrows raising at the sight of Steve perched up on one of the bar stools. 

“Does your Daddy let you sit on those?” he asks. 

Steve stays silent for a moment. Then, he says, “I’ll be careful,” which is answer enough.

“Yeah. I’m sure you will. But those stools are still pretty high up, so I think we should get you to the table instead.” 

A pout forms on Steve’s face, and Bucky has the vague thought that dealing with a fussy kid is so _not up his alley,_ just based on previous experience alone, but then Steve hops down from the stool and that tension melts away with his sigh of relief. He gets Steve set up at the table with his phone, which he’d downloaded a few games onto for this express purpose. Steve isn’t actually all that big on phones or tablets — he prefers his toys by a landslide — but it’s certainly enough to keep him occupied, which is enough in turn for Bucky to keep those games despite not ever playing them. 

Bucky’s _very sophisticated_ idea of lunch ends up being chicken nuggets with chopped veggies and dip, as well as some berries and a glass of milk. Honestly, he thinks it could be worse. Plus, Steve definitely doesn’t seem to mind, so his culinary skills can’t be all that bad. 

He’s almost surprised at how normal it feels to reach across the table and wipe Steve’s face down before he can run off and play. At first, his interactions with Steve in headspace had felt a little stilted, something that he actively had to think about. Now, he washes up and keeps half an eye on Steve without a second thought.

Bucky is more than content to read on the couch while Steve plays, crafting a story with a surprisingly intricate web of characters, all voiced in soft tones that don’t disturb the peace that has settled over the living room like a blanket. He’s come to enjoy the communal floor while it’s bustling with conversation, but he likes this too, likes the quiet and the sunshine that warms every surface it comes in contact with, bringing with it a foggy sense of haziness. 

Then, Steve asks him if he wants to join, and it’s downright impossible to say no to the blue eyes that blink questioningly up at him.

Which, naturally, is how he ends up playing as a doll at a tea party. 

“Dorothea’s just getting groceries,” Steve explains, as he pushes a blue car along the carpet toward a plastic cash register set. Bucky hums and nods, still working stubbornly at a knot in his doll’s hair with a tiny brush that he can practically hold between two fingers. It’s not even a very noticeable knot, but it’s definitely there, and he’s _definitely_ going to get it out. 

Steve returns to the tea party table with a red basket that’s significantly larger than his doll, containing food items that are practically doll-sized in and of themselves. Bucky is barely able to contain a smile as Steve sets an apple and a pear down that pretty much take up the entire table. 

“They definitely won’t be hungry,” Bucky notes, as he pulls out one of the chairs and sits his doll down. 

Steve nods, stacking a plastic baguette atop the aforementioned fruit in a way that looks pretty precarious. “Daddy says fruits have energy, and they both need energy for their cooking competition.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows raise. The plot thickens. 

“There’s a cooking competition?” 

He gets another nod. “They’re making cakes. With frosting.”

“And who’s the judge?” 

“Ummmm.” Steve considers this for a beat or two before jumping up to his feet. “I’ll be right back!” 

Bucky watches as he scurries down the hall and into one of the rooms, bounding back out into the living room with Mr. Rabbit in his clutches. “Mr. Rabbit will be the judge!” he announces, as he drops down to the carpet and sets Mr. Rabbit to his left. Bucky and Steve have both developed an unprecedented fascination for cheap, over-produced cooking shows that the other Avengers tease them relentlessly for, so he really shouldn’t be surprised that some of that would spill over into Steve’s little headspace. 

The cooking competition is well underway when Bucky notices it, the way Steve’s fingers creep up toward his mouth seemingly without his conscious awareness, before he snatches them away again at the last second. It’s a pattern that becomes increasingly obvious as the afternoon draws on, and the sun continues to descend down toward the horizon. 

Finally, when Steve’s fingers _do_ end up inside his mouth, Bucky deems it fit to ask, “need me to get you a pacifier, bud?” 

He thinks it’s a relatively fair question, but Steve seems downright mortified, blue eyes wide and guilty as he removes his fingers from his mouth and wipes them hastily on his shirt, shaking his head rapidly. Bucky regards him for a moment, taken aback, but he decides to drop it for the time being. 

Steve is beginning to look increasingly tired, his shoulders slumped and his posture slackened. His blinks slow right down, and he props his head up on one hand as he narrates his doll’s actions. He ends up sucking on his thumb this time, gaze hazy and unfocused. 

Bucky is starting to get the feeling that a nap might be in order.

“Sure you don’t want a pacifier?” he asks, trying hard to reign in his tone, keep it soft. 

A pang of regret fills his chest as he watches the same panic flash across Steve’s face. 

“‘M a big boy.”

“Alright. Well, how about a nap?” 

Steve shakes his head adamantly. “That’s for babies.”

Yeah. Bucky’s starting to notice a bit of a trend here. 

“Okay,” he says, placating, because he thinks arguing that Steve may not entirely be as big as he thinks he is would be a pointless exercise. Time to switch tactics. “How about a movie, then? I don’t know about you, but it’s been a while since I watched Aladdin.” 

Steve considers for a moment, gaze flicking between his toys and the TV. He gives a quick little nod, and Bucky tries not to look too pleased. 

“Let’s clean up these toys first, alright? Don’t wanna leave a mess for the others.” 

Funnily enough, Steve agrees easily to _that_ idea, which only feeds into Bucky’s suspicion that he may not be entirely comfortable with being smaller while he’s alone with Bucky. It’s understandable, but it still has a knot of guilt tightening inside his chest. He doesn’t want Steve thinking that he’s secretly judging him or anything along those lines.

Once the toys have been returned to their respective crevices they both settle down toward the center of the couch. 

“JARVIS, could you tint the windows and get Aladdin booted up?” 

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes.” 

Steve seems tense at first, from the stiff slope of his shoulders to his tightly folded arms. But then, as the movie starts to progress, his posture slackens once more, and he gradually sinks back into the couch cushions, bringing his socked feet up from the floor. Bucky shoots him the occasional glance throughout the first portion of the movie, casually monitoring, and he’s more than a little relieved when Steve reaches a point where he seems entirely enraptured. His fascinated expression and wide eyes are illuminated by the screen, various colors playing over his features that throw them into sharp relief. 

Bucky gets absorbed pretty quickly after that, too, at least until he feels a weight drop down onto his shoulder and realizes with a sharp inhale of surprise that it’s Steve leaning on him, seemingly without thought. He stiffens for a moment before forcing himself to relax, shoulders dropping down from where they’d temporarily bunched up. Steve shuffles in closer, attention still fixated on the screen, and Bucky grows used to the weight and the warmth of him pressed all along his side, enough that he even winds an arm around Steve and draws him in. 

By the last half hour of the movie, Steve is undeniably cuddled up to him, with his head snuggled into his chest like a pillow. Steve’s arms are latched securely around his waist, and Bucky had started up a rhythmic motion without even realizing it, his palm running steadily up and down Steve’s back, catching occasionally on the bunched-up fabric of his shirt. 

He chances a glance down at Steve, only to find that he’s started up with the thumb-sucking once again, his thumb lodged firmly in his mouth as he watches the events of the movie unfold on screen. Bucky sighs inwardly. The kid’s eyelids are starting to droop a little, sliding shit for a moment before flashing opening again, like Steve is actively trying to keep himself awake. He’s not sure how suggesting a nap would go at the current moment, but…

“Steve?” he whispers, patting his back. 

Steve blinks blearily, glazed eyes up at him. “Mhm?” 

“How do we feel about a bottle, huh? Or—just a drink, or something.”

He immediately stiffens up and rears back like an offended cat. “No. ‘M big.” 

Bucky lets out a sigh, fighting back the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. I got that. But big boys can have drinks too.” 

Steve shakes his head, and his bottom lip wobbles in a way that instantly sets alarm bells off inside Bucky’s head. “I’ll get tired.” 

“That’s fine. I mean, I’m getting a little tired, too.” 

“No. Daddy says.” 

Bucky falters at that, eyebrows furrowing. “Daddy says what exactly?” 

“Daddy says, says be big,” Steve says, voice thin and wavering. 

Some of the pieces are finally beginning to click into place. He’s heard Tony say it before, a quick sort of “you gotta be a big boy for Daddy, alright?” but he thinks that this time around Steve might have taken that literally to mean that he _has_ to be as big as possible. 

Needless to say, he _really_ sighs this time, shaking his head as he resumes his rhythmic motion up and down Steve’s back.

“Kid, I don’t think he meant it like that. He wants you to be as little as you’re feeling.” He hesitates, before adding, “I do too.” 

He can practically see the gears in Steve’s head turning as he processes this. When the silence stretches onward, Bucky ends up saying, “you don’t feel all that big right now, right?”

Steve hesitates before giving the tiniest of nods. 

“Then you don’t have to be. It’s okay, I promise.” 

He doesn’t get a response, but he _does_ feel Steve gradually relax against him once more, the tension draining from his shoulders like an invisible string has been cut somehow. He gives it a minute or so, lets silence hang there like a pleasant warmth rather than a pervasive fog. 

“So, what do you say to that bottle?” 

He gets another nod, quick and a little nervous, but undeniable this time. It’s hard to miss the rosy blush that warms Steve’s cheeks as he presses in closer. 

“Alright. So you wanna come with me to the kitchen to do you wanna stay here?” 

“Here,” he mumbles, as he reluctantly detaches himself, curling up into the corner of the couch. 

Bucky nods. “I’ll be right back, okay? Call if you need me.” 

He’s _very_ glad that he already has experience with making up a bottle, because it makes for a whole lot less fumbling as he sets about locating supplies, preparing the meal replacement shake and zapping it in the microwave. After testing the warmth of the milk on the inside of his wrist and deeming it suitable, he makes quick work of replacing the milk and meal replacement powder, hurrying back out into the living space. 

JARVIS has the movie paused right where they left off, which Bucky is grateful for, because he didn’t even think to pause it. Steve is still curled up into the corner of the couch with a pillow, sucking on his thumb, and the sight has him retreating back into the kitchen once more to locate a pacifier for when he’s done with his bottle. He doesn’t look sad per se, but he certainly doesn’t seem happy either, staring off into the middle-distance with glazed eyes, so Bucky would prefer not to leave him alone for too long. 

Steve accepts the bottle with a quiet ‘thank you’ that’s muffled significantly around his thumb, which he seems pretty reluctant to remove. Bucky settles back down beside him and tries not to make any sort of show out of watching him, just asks JARVIS to unpause the movie like everything is entirely normal. The movie is coming to a climax now, and Steve ends up cuddled up into his side once more, both hands wrapped around his bottle in a way that has warmth blooming inside Bucky’s chest. He brings his legs up onto the couch and steadily makes his way through the bottle, picking up speed during particularly fraught moments enough that Bucky has to gently remind him to slow down. 

To his utter relief, Steve accepts the pacifier once he’s done with his bottle, suckling away during the final five minutes of the movie as he leans more heavily into Bucky’s side, his head partially tucked away into the crook of Bucky’s neck. When the credits begin to play his eyelids are drooping once more.

“Alright. Naptime, I think.” 

Steve gives a tired shake of his head, which brings a small smile to Bucky’s lips. 

“Really? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure you’re on the verge of falling asleep right now, bud.”

He doesn’t even get an actual response to that apart from a wide yawn that almost has Steve’s pacifier tumbling from his mouth. 

“Yup. Definitely bedtime for kiddos.” Bucky gently extricates himself from Steve’s hold and stands up from the couch. “I’ll even carry you if you want.” 

Steve cracks an eye open, clearly interested. Bucky snorts, amused. “Come on, princess, we’re going.” Steve wrinkles his nose at the name but doesn’t object, just lets Bucky scoop him up from the couch bridal style, nuzzling into his shirt and letting his eyes flutter shut. It surprises Bucky, just how easy it is to carry Steve despite his height. 

He pads down the hall and into the elevator, which begins its ascent up to Tony’s floor immediately without question. The door to Steve’s little room hangs ajar, warm light flooding out into the hall. He shoulders it open further and adjusts his grip on Steve before gently lowering him down onto the Avengers bedspread. It takes some coaxing, but Steve cooperates enough that Bucky can get the blanket layers out from under him and get him tucked in, giving his arm an affectionate pat.

“There. Now you’re all set.” 

Steve turns onto his side and snuffles into the pillow, tousling his hair a little in the process. A peaceful expression steals over his face the further he slides into the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. 

“Night, Bucky,” he mumbles around his pacifier. 

Something squeezes inside Bucky’s chest. God, that’s cute. Even if it’s nowhere near nighttime. He lingers there for a beat, takes in Steve’s relaxed face, the long, pale lashes that rest delicately on his cheeks. He looks smaller than he usually does, curled up on such an expansive bed. 

“Night, pal,” he murmurs, because hey, he has to reciprocate the sentiment, right? 

He flicks off the light as he leaves the room, slowly closing the door behind him to generate the least amount of noise possible. What he definitely _doesn’t_ do is jump about three feet into the air upon seeing Tony out in the living space, scratched up and bruised pretty heavily. 

“You look terrible,” he notes. 

Tony’s gaze snaps toward him. A tired smile tugs at his mouth. “Anyone ever tell you that you always know just what to say?” 

Bucky flashes him a quick grin, _purely_ because Tony has mentioned before that the sight of one Bucky Barnes, renowned Winter Soldier, grinning is entirely unnerving. “Really though, some of those look bad. Have you gone to medical?” 

“What, to get told stuff that JARVIS can tell me just as easily, without all the fuss?” His gaze shifts toward the hall, sharpening with scrutiny, and Bucky instantly knows that his general aversion to seeking medical care isn’t all that’s brought him straight to his floor. 

“Is he alright? I mean, JARVIS gave me the gist, but.” 

Bucky nods. “He’s fine.” He hesitates, before continuing, “might wanna talk to him when he wakes up, though. Think he took something you said about being big for you while you’re away and thought he couldn’t be any younger, even if he was feeling like it.”

Tony sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Shit. I knew something was up when I left. He was all,” he gestures about with his hands, “quiet. Too quiet, even for him.” 

Bucky nods. “Don’t worry about it now, just take a shower or something. You look like shit. I’ll keep watch.” 

“Okay, that’s rude. Categorically, I _never_ look like shit. Also, you sure?” 

“Positive. It’s not that hard a job.” 

Tony points a finger at him as he wanders toward his bedroom. “Try getting some food into him when he’s being fussy, then we’ll talk.” 

Bucky snorts. “Take a shower, Tony. And get JARVIS scanning those injuries.” 

“Sir, yes Sir.” 

He watches Tony disappear down the hall before getting situated on the couch with his book.

If Steve needs him, he’s more than confident that JARVIS will let him know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was my first time writing from a pov that isn't steve or tony :o perhaps i'll have to branch out


End file.
